Until the Earth Is Free
by Marius blowthebaricade
Summary: As he stands prepared to die before the French army, Enjolras is taken prisoner by the cold-hearted inspector Javert, who believes the young revolutionary is his only key to finding the escaped prisoner 24601. As Enjolras suffers in prison, two survivors of the revolution risk everything they have as they set out on a mission to rescue their leader.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter I

Enjolras drew in a sudden breath, and it was as if he had just inhaled some deathly toxic poisonous gas. Air entered his lungs like water pouring into a jug that was too small to hold it, filling it and spilling out over the rim. But water refreshes, quenches a man's thirst, eases the pain of hot wounds. Whatever liquid Enjolras had just pulled into his lungs was like melted magma rising up within a volcano, like a sudden fire that had long ago been smoldering with dimly glowing ambers had just erupted in his chest and burst into a furious flame that spread uncontrollably through him, attacking his throat, his lungs, his heart, devouring them and burning them up.

His lungs burned. His heart was like an iron hammer slamming against the steel anvil that was his rib cage. His head was pulsing with pain as his heart pounded in his temples. Enjolras started coughing. The deep, choking, strangled sound that came forth from somewhere deep within his chest was terrible as the thick liquid that had been condensing in his lungs began to stir, trying to force its way up his throat. This made his chest cave in and clamp up as if there was a snake inside of him constricting his lungs. At any other time a man in this condition would have been in the hospital as the doctors contemplated what medicines might be able to cure such a critical lung condition...or if the condition was curable at all. It is more likely that they would be contemplating how many more nights this man would have to suffer before the merciful Lord stepped in and took him away.

But Enjolras was not in the hospital. Nor was he attempting to do anything to quench the fire that burned inside if him. It hurt but he barely noticed. He was sure the other boys were experiencing the same pain. The thick smoke that filled the café was as good as poison. It was as if the red flame that engulfed the building transformed itself into smoke so that it could travel inside the bodies of its victims where it would then, again, take its true form and burn them up from the inside out.

Enjolras, ignoring the pain, gathered all the strength that still lingered in his body and threw the heavy wooden dresser at the door. The loud crack of the wood breaking could be hear through the hissing of the fire as the dresser collapsed into a heap of broken wood, and it sounded like logs in a hearth cracking as they burn.

Enjolras backed away from the door. He gripped an unloaded musket tightly in his left hand, as if it could still somehow protect him, and in his right hand the red flag. He held out his arms to push young men standing behind him farther away from the now blocked entrance.

Joly, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre, his friends, stood beside him. They were all that was left of the Friends of the ABC. Before his eyes, Enjolras has watched as all the others fell. One by one they fell to the ground to drown in a pool if their own blood.

They were all going to die. Enjolras knew this. It was only a matter of time. If the French soldiers did not find them soon enough, they would all burn with the café. Burn with the revolution. The revolution was dying and the young revolutionaries dying with it. Enjolras has led his friends and all of the people to their deaths.

Over the roar of the flames, Enjolras could hear the soldiers crashing through the ground floor if the café. Everybody in the room froze as terrible anticipation fell upon them like the icy breath of death. There was no fear worse than the fear that comes when a man sits vulnerable, waiting for death.

Enjolras heard his friends whimpering softly behind him like terrified and helpless dogs. Even with the burning heat from the fire, which turned the café into a furnace, Enjolras felt the sweat that coved his body, beaded on his forehead, ran down his back, soaked through his clothes turn cold like ice and a shiver ran through him, and his flesh became cold as if death had already laid hands upon him.

_Boom!_

The sound of the riffles going of was like the screams of demons. Enjolras's heart froze in his chest and the rest of his body jumped with terror. But then he kept his feet. No bullet had found him. Instead of falling to the ground, he stood silently in the room and he watched Joly, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre fall, their bodies no longer moving, their hearts no longer beating.

Panic began to set in on Enjoras and before he was aware if it, he was backing away from his friends' dead bodies, staring at them in horror as he watched a deep red liquid spill out from them and pool out over the floor, as if a bottle of red wine had tipped and the brew inside of it began to drain out over the wooden planks of the ground.

Enjolras might have stared at them until he too had been shot had he not felt a cool wind begin to blow down the back of his neck. The cool air was like the remedy of cold water being dumped on the head of a drunkard, awakening him from his dreamlike intoxication.

Enjolras turned his head to look over his shoulder and saw that he was standing only a few steps in front of the huge window that gaped, always open, like an empty doorframe, over the entrance of the café, overlooking the streets of Paris. Enjolras looked out the window now and saw the smoking remains of a dead cause that had once burned with the fragrance of life and now smoked with the repulsive odor of death.

_Red. The blood of angry men... _

That was part of the phrase Enjolras had used to rally the people. Now it came floating into his head like a phantom come to haunt him; the ghost of one of his dead friends, the friends that were dead because of him.

The paved streets of Paris had been painted red from the dark river of blood that ran down the roads and towards the café like a stream. The blue sky had become black, poisoned by the same smoke that condensed in thick clots of mucus inside of Enjolras's lungs. The bodies of the young boys, Enjolras's friends, who had so boldly hoisted the flag of revolution as they took to the streets singing of freedom now, littered the red streets of Paris, slumped against the sides of buildings or lying in heaps on the ground. And there, blocking the street in front of the café, was the smoking remains of the barricade.

Angry shouts and heavy footfalls coming from just outside the room told Enjolras that the soldiers were making their way up the stairs. He turned back around in time to see the door jolt as something heavy slammed into it. The blockade that he had quickly thrown in front of the entrance held for the first few blows to the door but that was all. Then the door burst open and a steam of French soldiers, dressed in uniform, flooded into the room.

At once, they saw Enjolras standing helplessly before the open window, the useless musket still clinched in his hand, as if letting go of it would be letting go over everything. Enjolras watched as the soldiers surrounded him, trained their guns on him, and waited for the order to fire.

As Enjolras looked out into the faces before him, expressionless, cold, hard like stone, he felt his grip on the musket loosen. The gun slipped out of his limp hand and fell to the floor, where, with a soft clatter it hit the ground and then went still. Enjolras had let go if his gun, the battle, the victory, but he still gripped the flag in his right hand and it hung limply by his side.

The general—Enjolras recognized him as the man at the barricade who first gave the order for the French to attack, the man who had declared to them before the battle, "You have no chance. No chance at all. Why throw your lives away?"—strode to the front of the army and looked at Enjolras. Enjolras looked back at him, looked into the general's dark, cold eyes, eyes that revealed nothing, eyes like vacant windows that had nothing behind them, eyes that had seen so much horror that the soul behind them no longer responded to it, the eyes of solider. Enjolras looked into these cold, dead eyes and wondered what they saw. They looked back at him, saw him standing helplessly in front of the window, but is that all they saw? Did this man feel pity? Did he feel pride? Shame? Triumph? Who could have said? The man's face revealed nothing. He looked at Enjolras, his eyes remained on him for a brief moment, then, he turned to the soldiers and ordered them to ready their guns.

Then that anticipation came back to him. That terrible, blood-freezing, fear that fills a man when he stands before death, waiting for it to claim him. He felt as if his heart dropped into his stomach and anything in side stomach had dropped straight out of his body. There was nothing left to fill him except a deep hallow hit, a cold feeling of emptiness, the bitter feeling of defeat, and the terrible fear of death. He looked into the barrels of all the guns aimed at him and the sight of them was like looking straight into the face of death. Death is ugly, repulsive, terrible. Upon looking at it, Enjolras felt that he would throw up. He stared at the end of the riffles, waiting for them to go off. Waiting… Waiting…

Fear. Fear that is deadly. Fear so terrible that a man loose complete control over himself. Fear that feels as if there are snakes slithering and contracting in a man's gut, trying move upward and out of his throat. Fear that paralyzes him, makes his body tremble uncontrollably, fear that chokes him, makes him certain that he will become physically ill and vomit. Fear that is painful to the point of suffering. Fear that is lethal. Fear that is agony.

For the brief moments when Enjolras stood before those guns, waiting for the end, he felt this fear. Then, quick footsteps echoed through the café and everyone in the room knew that there was someone moving quickly up the stairs. Enjolras, along with all the soldiers, turned their heads just as a man hurried into the room where Enjolras stood waiting to die.

At first sight, anyone could see that this man was not, what was called, a "proper gentleman." There were many who would have said that he was not a gentleman at all. The man was like the rest of those in this battle: little older than a boy. This man, however, had an even younger air about him. Simply by looking at him one could see that this was a man full of the jubilant life of childhood, which many "gentleman" frowned upon. The man was not very big nor was he very tall. Upon looking at him someone saw a man very small and not very strong. His wide eyes were the color of the sky when the day is clear and only golden rays of sunlight pass through the heavens. A wild mess of thick, curly black hair sat on top of his head with the impression of someone who had just rolled out of bed after a particularly fitful sleep. His face was pale and there was deep contrast between his white face and the dark lines that shadowed under his blue eyes, which right now looked slightly red and swollen. The man might have been very handsome had he attempted to care for himself, but one glance denied him that. The man looked poorly kept, very dirty, and slightly sickly. But it was plain to all that looked upon this man that he had been ruined by alcohol. He was a drunkard, and for that, proper society had no respect for him.

The man stopped suddenly when he saw the mass of soldiers standing before him, their muskets out and aimed. He looked around at them, his eyes wide and confused, as if he were a man who, by some unlucky chance of fait, had appeared in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then the man's eyes came to rest on Enjolras, and all at once his confused, startled face was replaced by a face of grave understanding.

The soldiers looked doubtfully at the man as he stood wavering in the doorway. Upon seeing him, many of them frowned, finding it obvious that he was not anyone of any importance or anyone in alliance with the noble French army. Who then was he? A citizen that had stumbled into the wrong situation, or one of the rebels?

While the soldiers looked at this man, trying to decide who he was and what to do with him, Enjolras knew this man as soon as he stepped foot in the room. Grantaire. A drunkard, a gambler, a charmer, trickster, a skeptic, and a doubter, who believed in close to nothing unless it had to do with drinking. Yet this man was one of the Friends of the ABC. Enjolras had never liked the man. He was always too drunk, too lazy, or too afraid to consider the revolution, and there were several occurrences when Grantaire had publicly gone against Enjolras, trying to convince the people why_ not_ to rebel. Grantaire believed in none of the things that Enjolras believed in, like the revolution, the Republic, the freedom of the people, and the divine plan of Providence, and everything that Enjolras did not believe in, like drinking, chasing women, enjoying like while a man still can, and letting the world unravel without interference. No, Enjolras did not care for Grantaire. At times, he even despised Grantaire, and he did not try to hide his feelings from the drunkard. He let him know it.

But in returned, Grantaire admired Enjolras, respected him, and obeyed him. Grantaire looked at Enjolras and saw, not a mere man, but a leader, a god, a king. Enjolras scorned Grantaire, scolded him and slandered him. While Enjolras always thought the drunkard heard his voice but did not even perceive any of what he was trying to tell him, Grantaire heard every word he said. Every scornful word from Enjolras was like a blow to Grantaire, which made him pick up a bottled and drink himself to unconsciousness.

Enjolras had forgotten all about Grantaire. He was with them at the barricade, stayed with them through the first battle, and also through the second, but that night, while Enjolras and the boys were tending to the wounded and preparing for the final battle that was to come the next morning, Grantaire had found refuge at the bottom of a wine bottle.

When Grantaire stumbled through that door, when his blue eyes met Enjolras's, the memory of the last words that had been exchanged between them suddenly flashed through Enjolras's mind. Grantaire was drinking after the battle. At first, Enjolras had tolerated it, but then Grantaire started getting very drunk—that is, drunker than usual. Enjolras, already angered and vengeful after many of his friends had fallen in the battles, poured all the wrath that had been brewing inside of him for so long, a terrible wrath of hatred that was meant for the French government for everything that they had ever done to him and the people, out onto Grantaire. Enjolras emptied the heavy burden of hatred that weighed down his soul by loading it, blow after blow, onto Grantaire. Grantaire heard every word, and each one pierced him like a knife.

Their conversation had concluded when Enjolras had finished yelling at Grantaire and had turned to leave. "Enjolras despises me," Grantaire muttered under his breath, to no one but himself.

Upon hearing this, Enjolras turned around and snapped, "Grantaire, you are a disgrace to France and a disgrace to this barricade. And you are a disgrace to everyman here who is willing to give his life for something they believe in." Then he had turned his back to Grantaire and walked away. He did not see the pained looked on Grantaire's face. He did not know that these words hurt Grantaire more than anything else that Enjolras had ever said to him. Because Enjolras told Grantaire, directly to his face, that he had disgraced him, and Enjolras was the one being on earth that Grantaire ever wanted to make proud.

Now Enjolras stood, looking into thus same man's eyes and it was Enjolras's turn to be disgraced. Ashamed. Grantaire had been right. The revolution was a fantasy. Enjolras had led his friends to revolution and he had led them straight to their deaths. If he would have taken Grantaire's advice, not rebelled, not gone to war, those men would all still be alive right now. But instead, they followed Enjolras, and they were all dead.

Enjolras looked at Grantaire with sad eyes, knowing that the man would finally repay him for all the terrible things that Enjolras had ever said to him. He knew that Grantaire would turn to the soldiers and cry out, "Here! This man was their leader! Take him! Hang him! Torture him! Parade his body around the streets so that all the people will see what happens to you if you attempt to defy the good king!" Then Grantaire would walk away untouched. Maybe even honored. The French army might even pay him to tell them all the secret plans of the revolution, which he knew but did not agree with. Grantaire's arrive here made everything so much worse. Enjolras would have rather been shot then taken. But maybe this was fait, the work of the just Lord. Now Enjolras would pay for all the sins he had committed against Grantaire, and whatever sentence would be just.

Grantaire looked back at the soldiers for a moment and then back to Enjolras. Enjolras expected him, at any moment, to call him out to the soldiers… but he didn't. Instead, in one bold action that was the one action of a man determining his fate, choosing between good and evil, between life and death, Grantaire stepped forward. At once, Enjolras and Grantaire's mind became one and they both understood. The cold, stone heart of Enjolras melted. Shame, sadness, happiness, and pride all swelled within him at once as Grantaire made his way quickly through the soldiers, and strode across the room to take his place standing beside Enjolras.

While the general repeated the order, and the soldiers readied their guns to shoot, Enjolras and Grantaire had not taken their eyes off each other. For the first time in ages, a smile spread across Enjolras's lips, and for the first time in his life, Enjolras smiled at Grantaire, his heart bursting with pride. Not a moment later, a small smile spread across Grantaire's lips, and the two men smiled at each other. Any walls, any barriers, any differences that had been cast between them, keeping them apart, suddenly crumpled and these two young revolutionaries could have been brothers, eternally untied.

All at once, Enjolras's soul erupted with the same flame that burned within him as he first stood before the people, rallying them and kindling the spark of the revolution. The same pride, certainty, eagerness, readiness, courage, passion, and will that pushed him to start the revolution burned in him now and there was not a shadow of regret in his heart. He was no longer afraid. He felt no shame, no sorrow, no defeat. The revolution of the Friends of the ABC would not go in vain.

With one burst of courage, Enjolras turned back to face the soldiers, no longer sad or afraid, but bold, courageous, and triumphant. One would have thought he had just won a great victory over death, and not that he stared death in the face. He suddenly raised the flag high above his head, holding up the banner of the revolution. Grantaire took a step closer to Enjolras and gently laid his hand upon his leader's arm.

_Black. The night the ends at last... _Enjolras thought as he watched the soldiers ready their guns. Now, at last, it would all end. There would be no more pain, no more suffering, no more poverty, and no more slavery. At last, they would all be free…

"On my order," the general commanded, nodding to the soldiers.

"Ready…"

Enjolras drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out.

"Take aim…"

Enjolras braced himself for the impact.

"F—"

"HOLD YOUR FIRE!"

The voice boomed out, cracking like lightning rolling like thunder, from somewhere behind the mass of soldiers. At once, the room fell silent. For a moment, nobody stirred, but time seemed frozen where it stood. Then, the soldiers began to shift, as to let someone move through their ranks to the front of the crowd.

Enjolras slowly lowered the flag as his eyes followed the top of a tall black hat slowly make its way through the army. Enjolras could not see the man's face, but just by looking at the surprised, timid, even scared expressions on the faces of the young soldiers as they hurried to get out of this man's way, he knew that this man was of high authority and of high power. A faint look of fear even flashed upon the lifeless face of the general as he laid eyes upon the man coming forward. At last, the man came to the front of the group and Enjolras could see his face.

Shock. Surprise. Disbelief. Enjolras recognized the man at once, but had to continue to stare at him for several moments to make sure that he was not mistaking. Enjolras stared at the cold, stern face that stood before him, penetrating him with dark, glaring eyes, and he felt as if he were staring into the face of a tiger about to pounce on its prey.

The general stepped quickly to the side and bowed. "Inspector Javert…"

"General…" Javert responded without taking his cold eyes off of Enjolras. He stepped forward, moving closer to the two young revolutionaries, who stood motionless and confused before the window, through which could be seen the burning remains of the revolution.

_This can be right!_ Enjolras thought as he stared at the man before him.

Javert was dead. He had come, a spy, to the barricade, but the boys had recognized him and took him captive. Enjolras had heard the gun go off, then seen the man who shot Javert appear and confirm his death. _Unless the man did not really shoot Javert…_Enjolras's thoughts rushed though his head, speeding along as if they had to hurry before it was too late. _The man let him go. _Enjolras had trusted the man who came to the barricade. This man had saved his life and the lives of many others that would have been killed. Enjolras gave Javert to the man trusting that he would kill him…

What then? Was that man also a spy? Part of the French Army? Was it planned that he came to the barricade just so he could deceive them into letting him set Javert free? Or did he let Javert go out of mercy?

Enjolras pushed the thoughts out of his head. It did not matter now anyway. Javert was alive and stood before him, strong and powerful, the French army at his command, Enjolras at his mercy.


	2. Chapter II

Chapter II

Enjolras's face suddenly became dark and hard, like stone, as he glared at Javert, hatred blazing in his eyes like fire.

Javert's eyes remained locked with Enjolras's and the two men glared at each other as Javert slowly came towards Enjolras, each of his each footsteps echoing quietly through the room. Javert's face was dark, hard, arrogant, angry, his eyes slightly narrowed, his brow furrowed, his lips in the grimmest ugliest frown a man could have managed—the same face he always wore, but now with an even deeper look of hatred and disgust. But there was something else in Javert's face too. Enjolras knew it was the pride that comes to a man when he has triumphed over an enemy that had wronged him and is now about to get revenge for it.

As Enjolras glared at Javert, he perceived an ugly wound high up on the left side of his forehead. Bruised and swollen, the lump that had appeared on his forehead was still coated with some of the dried blood that, apparently, Javert had attempted to wipe off. Enjolras had given Javert this wound himself. After Javert had punched him in the face in attempt to escape the revolutionaries, who had discovered his true identity, Enjolras had put an abrupt end to Javert's escape attempt by cracking a walking stick over his head and knocking him unconscious. By the wrathful glare that was now smoldering in Javert's eyes, Enjolras could see that he had not forgotten this encounter.

Javert stared at Enjolras with eyes that cut through him like daggers as he continued to move closer to the reason for the entire revolution, the look in his eyes dangerous, the looking on his face murderous. He was only a few steps away from him, and still moving closer to Enjolras, who did not waver, but held his ground like a stone wall that would not yield. Javert might have kept coming closer until their faces were only inches apart had Grantaire not stepped forward to stand between them.

Javert stopped and, for the first time, took his eyes off of Enjolras to look down at the drunkard who stood in his way. Seeing what Grantaire had done, Enjolras stepped forward to stand beside him. For a long moment, the three men stood piercing one another with their eyes. It was as if an internal war was raging between them, Enjolras and Grantaire on one side, Javert on the other, neither side yielding nor accepting defeat.

Finally, Javert turned his back on the rebels and turned to address the soldiers. "This man was the instigator of this revolution," Javert began. He motioned at Enjolras but did not take his eyes of the soldiers, as if the rebel was too disgusting to even look upon. "He unambiguously deserves death. But I will see to it that he does not die like this. To shoot him now would be to let the wretch die with pride and self-respect. Perhaps, some part of his twisted and disturbed mind, might even have tricked itself into believing that his actions were the right course. To kill him now would be to let him die thinking that he had achieved some victory. For certain, I do not wish to let the man who murdered leagues of so many of good, respectable, noble soldiers sleep without first paying for crimes."

Javert said all of this, his voice void of emotion. It was seemed as if everything he said made no difference to him at all. As if they were true. As if Javert really only wanted to see Enjolras suffer because it was a just sentence. But as Enjolras listened to Javert's words, he could feel anger intensifying within him. He knew that Javert wanted to see him suffer and it was not for justice, but for revenge.

"No, I will not see him die with his head held high," Javert finished, and as he said it, only Enjolras could hear the relish in his voice.

"At the least," Javert told the soldiers, "we shall have him publicly executed so that all of France can see what becomes of the man who betrays his country." At last, Javert turned his head and looked back at Enjolras.

Enjolras looked at Javert, his face dark, hating, but also sad. Deep in his heart, Enjolras felt the pangs of defeat. No one else could have noticed a change on Javert's stony face, but as this man fixed his cold eyes on him, Enjolras saw a shadow of a smile, like a ghost, cross Javert's lips, and for that moment, Enjolras felt an icy cold chill run down his spin, turning his blood to ice. For just a fraction of a second, Enjolras perceived that he was not looking into the face of any man, but that he looked into the face of a demon. Then, just as it had appeared on his face, it was gone and the same proud face of Javert glared at him. Enjolras felt his body relax, fear slipping away, and the relief that comes when a man discovers he had not seen something so terrible, but had made a mistake, flowed into him. But his heart continued to race in his chest.

"We take him alive," Javert said, turning back to the soldiers. "Bind his hands."

At once, a young man came forward, bearing a long, thin rope in his hands. As he quickly approached, Enjolras did not take his eyes off Javert. Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras saw the boy slip behind him and a moment later, he felt him take his hands, bring them together behind his back, and begin to winding the splintery cords around his wrists, tying them so tight that they dug into his flesh. Enjolras made no attempt to resist. He stood there bold and strong, like a statue of marble.

When the boy had finished binding Enjolras, he moved on to the man standing beside him. Grantaire, following Enjolras's example, stood silently by his leader's side, and allowed the soldier to bind his hands.

As soon as Enjolras was bound, Javert went forward and seized him by his arm, yanking him off balance and causing him to stumble forward for the moment before be regained his footing. Grantaire watched Javert drag Enjolras forward and his muscles tensed.

Enjolras straightened up and raised his head to meet Javert's eyes. Javert glared back at him for a moment. A moment later, Enjolras barely saw it coming before Javert's club slammed him in the side of the face.

Enjolras fell backwards. For a moment he was aware of nothing except for the dazing pain pulsing in the left side of his face. His head began to throb as dark spots swam across his vision, threatening to blind him. For a brief moment the world around him was a confused jumble of swirling colors and unintelligible voices that seemed to be echoing from far off in the distance.

As soon as Javert struck Enjolras, Grantaire let out an angry cry and bolted forward, pulling away from the soldier that had not yet knotted the rope around his wrists. Easily pulling his hands free of the unfastened cords, Grantaire went straight for Javert and was upon him before the second it took for Javert to look up and see him approaching. In one motion, Grantaire stepped between Enjolras and the inspector and, striking the man in his chest with both hands, forcefully pushed Javert back away from Enjolras.

This action was like a spark going off to trigger an explosion. In a quick series of actions that took less than a matter of seconds of occur, Javert's hand flew to his pistol, the soldier who had been binding Grantaire's wrists raced forward in a panic and seized Grantaire's shoulders, restraining him, the general turned his pistol to aim it at Grantaire, several of the soldiers, unsure what to do, followed their general's lead and trained their weapons on the pair of revolutionaries.

Then, everyone in the room felt fall upon them the great tension, anxiously, fear, and suspense of two opposing forces in standoff be pushed to the edge and prepare to cross the line, stepping out of the standoff and entering into the war. It seemed that everyone in the room held their breath.

Enjolras carefully laid his hand on Grantaire's shoulder, as to tell him to stand down. Grantaire did not seem to notice, he looked boldly at Javert, his eyes burning with a dark fire, his face angry and glaring, his head held high, defenseless yet bold, not a shadow of fear on his face.

"Grantaire..." Enjolras said softly. He watched Javert's hand gripping his pistol, not drawling it out from his belt but granting full access to it at any moment. "Grantaire..." Enjolras quietly whispered again, when he did not seem to hear him the first time.

Always obedient to Enjolras, Grantaire resisted the urge to punch Javert in the face and, glaring loathingly at him, let out a deep sigh and took a small step backward, moving away from Javert. Enjolras let his breath out.

Most of the soldiers began lowering their weapons, and those that did not, at least stopped aiming so fixedly at the two young men. This seemed to be a huge relief for the young soldiers whose guns were aimed at Grantaire. They were just boys. They did not want to see any more death today.

Enjolras, who had no taken his eyes off Javert, did not fail to notice that the man was still tightly gripping his pistol in his hand, his finger on the trigger. Enjolras's eyes moved from the gun to look Javert in the face and suspiciously search it for any hint of what the man was thinking.

Javert looked at back at Enjolras for a moment, their eyes locked. Then he stepped abruptly forward, seized Grantaire's shoulder with one hand and with powerful strength, flung him out of his way.

Grantaire, being small, light, and weakened by alcohol, was thrown off his feet and to the ground. He did not catch himself in time and his face slammed full impact straight into the wooden planks of floor.

Sudden fury burst within Enjolras. Grantaire, letting out a quiet moan of pain, lifted his head and Enjolras could see blood running down his chin and the gaping wound where his lip was busted open. Enjolras, driven by rage, acting on impulse, suddenly lunged at Javert.

Javert, already anticipating the assault, immediately raised his club and swung it at Enjolras. This time it struck him in his right side, slamming into the lower chamber of his ribcage. The way Enjolras was turned towards Javert, the way the club was swung from the side, the strike came in a deadly angle. The impact of the blow was so forceful that everyone in the room could hear the crack.

_Crack! _

The pain hit so hard that Enjolras could not even scream. It was so terrible that it seemed to ride up within him, choking him, strangling him. The world around his began to spin into a confused blurry jumble and darkness began to cave in over his vision. He couldn't breathe. All the air was forced out of his lungs and, though he tried desperately, he could not manage to pull air back into them. He began to panic. He felt like he was trapped underwater, without oxygen without air, unable to breath, unable to get out. Enjolras felt that he was trapped like this for hours, when in reality it was only a few seconds, but it was agonizing.

He let out a quiet strangled gasping sound as he managed to draw in a short, cut-off, breath. He stumbled backwards, bent over in pain as he painfully dragged air into his lungs and then forced it back out. Instantly, he tried to move his hands to clutch his side where the pain was worst, but they were bound behind his back, and there was nothing he could do. Instead, his fingers dung into the fabric of the red flag, and he held it as hard as he could.

All of this happened so fast that no one in the room had time to react until this moment. Grantaire was the first to respond. Even in his drunken state, he was the first to understand what had just happened. Javert had hurt Enjolras.

"Hey!" Grantaire yelled in rage. In that same moment, he jumped to his feet and took one fierce step towards Javert.

Javert, as if he had been expecting this attack as well, turned on Grantaire almost the same instant he cried out, and then a gun went off.

Enjolras's heart stopped. His blood froze in his veins. For that moment, he felt the same fear that possessed him when he watched Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Joly get killed. The hollow empties, again, filling his gut, he looked up, terrified of what he would see.

He saw Grantaire stumble backward, his skin gone pale, a look of shock upon his face. Enjolras's eyes darted to look where Grantaire's hand left hand had fled to, and he felt a deep dread as well as that terrible, agonizing fear fall over him. He felt his entire body become weak. His chest clamped up and he could not breathe. He suddenly became very dizzy, and he thought he might pass out.

Grantaire's hand was pressed against the lower left side of his stomach, just above the curve of his hipbone. There was dark blood seeping out from between his fingers, rapidly spreading across his clothes, running down his leg, staining his pants, engulfing his body as if it were the fire engulfing the café.

Grantaire's eyes stared down at the blood flowing out of him, and he watched it confused, as if he did not understand what was going on. After long moment, he slowly raised his head and his eyes found Enjolras. Enjolras looked back into Grantaire's blue eyes, overcome with fear. Grantaire looked back into Enjolras's eyes, his face sad, for just one more moment. Then he fell.

"Grantaire!" Enjolras cried in panic. Forgetting the terrible pain in his own flesh, Enjolras lung forward, trying to run to him. But he had barley taken a few steps before Javert caught him by the arm, holding him back. Enjolras, now headless to anything around his except for Grantaire, who lay silently on the ground, clutching his wound as his life drained out of him, struggled to get away, not taking his eyes off his fallen friend.

But Javert was too strong. Leaving his hands on Enjolras, restraining him, Javert turned to the army behind him. Many of the young soldiers were watching the situation was terror, their faces fearful, or shocked, or upset. The general had stood still and silent, like a statue, as he watched everything with a blank, passive face, almost as if he did not see anything that had just happened.

"That man was not of any importance to us," Javert addressed the general. "A drunkard and a fool, and with very little significance, there would be no point in taking him with us." Javert did not even spare Grantaire a glance as he started back across the room towards the army, dragging Enjolras along behind him.

"No! No! NO!" Enjolras yelled as he was pulled away from Grantaire. He began to struggle with all the strength left in him, frantic and mad like a wild animal caught in a trap. "NO! Let me go! Let me see him! Grantaire! No! Let me—LET GO OF ME!"

It seemed to take up all the dying strength left in him for Grantaire to weakly raise his head and look at Enjolras. He opened his lips and quietly said something. Enjolras could hear his voice, weak and feeble, but he couldn't make out what Grantaire had said. "What?" Enjolras called out, desperate to understand what Grantaire wanted to tell him. He saw Grantaire open his mouth and try to speak again, but this time he could not even hear the words leaving his lips.

Javert pulled Enjolras over to the soldiers, and, Enjolras did not interpret what he said to them, but he heard Javert's deep, cold voice exchange a few words with someone, and then they were leaving, dragging Enjolras out of the room, taking him away from Grantaire.

"Wait! No!" Enjolras cried out in a panic as he jolted forward, trying to pull free of Javert's grasp. "He wants to tell me something! He wants me to stay with him!" No one seemed to hear anything Enjolras was saying and they continued to take him away. "No! Stop! Let me go! Please! Let me go to him!" Now, Enjolras was begging.

For the first time, Enjolras took his eyes off Grantaire and look at Javert. Enjolras's face was so sad, so scared, so desperate, so helpless, so hurt that it would have melted the heart of a man whose heart was crafted of stone. But Javert's heart was made of something harder.

"Please, let me go to him!" Enjolras, proud, strong, brave Enjolras, a man who had never in his life accepted help from anyone, who would rarely ask for anything, and would _never_ lower himself to the level of begging, was pleading like a child, desperate, broken, afraid. "Just let me stay with him until it's over"—by this he meant until Grantaire had died—"and then I'll go with you! Then, I'll do whatever you say! I won't argue; I won't resist anything! Just let me see him!"

Javert, who until this moment had not even acknowledged that he heard Enjolras speaking, looked at Enjolras out of the corner of his eye. His gaze was dark, cold, and merciless. Enjolras knew at once that this man was not going to show him any compassion.

Suddenly more desperate than before, Enjolras turned back to Grantaire. His head was resting on the ground, his white face turned so Enjolras could see it. His eyes were still open and fixed on Enjolras.

"Grantaire!" Enjolras cried out again, as he was being forced through the doorway. Enjolras knew that the next thing he said would be the last thing he would ever say to Grantaire. Maybe, the last words that Grantaire would ever hear. What to say? Enjolras did not know. There were so many things that he wanted to say to Grantaire, but now that the time had come he did not seem to know.

Just as they were pulling him out of the room, without knowing what he was about to say, Enjolras heard his own voice cry out, "I'm sorry!"

And those were the last words he would ever say to Grantaire.


	3. Chapter III

Chapter III

Enjolras saw nothing of anything around him as he was led out of the café and through the red battlefield of the streets. He heard nothing. He felt nothing. That last image of Grantaire that he had seen before the door closed between them was etched over his eyes in perfect, horrifying detail, and he could see nothing else.

Grantaire's face was so pale it seemed as if all the blood had drained out of it. His eyes were still open but there was a blank, empty looking in them, a thin film forming over them, as if his soul was already beginning to depart to the other side. He was still alive when the door shut, but Enjolras knew that he would not be for long. His head was resting on the ground, in a manner that look so peaceful that one might have thought that he had just lied his head down to go to sleep. There was blood on his chin and mouth, blood soaking his clothes, blood pooling out over the floor around him, blood everywhere… Enjolras could not get the blood out of his mind.

_Red, the blood of angry men._

_Red, the blood of angry men._

_Red, the blood of my dead friends… _

After the doors had closed, Javert had yanked the flag out of Enjolras's hand and cast it into the fire, where it had burned up into nothing. The banner of the revolution was gone. The Friends of the ABC were gone. All Enjolras's friends were gone. All cause was gone. All hope was gone. It was over.

The only thing that he had seen on his way of the of café, this was something so awesome, moving, terrible, and heartrending, that even a blind man might have been able to see it, maybe not with his eyes, but feel it in his heart. As got to the bottom floor of the café and crossed the room, they had to pass by a long line of dead revolutionaries, who lay sleeping together side by side.

Enjolras looked at each of his friends' faces as he walked by, and he felt that he was looking upon the faces of angels. Every one of them looked at peace, as if they were only sleeping. Even in death they all looked so beautiful, even more then when they were alive. Their faces, pale and white, were cold and dark, like stone, yet somehow, they also seemed to glow with a faint, yet pure, light. This light, Enjolras thought, could have only been from heaven. Nothing else could have been so perfect, so pure. As he looked at his fallen friends, he was greatly saddened, but somehow comforted. For now he had no doubt that they were in a better place now. That they were free. That they were with God.

The way these brave young people were laying together, it seemed as if their bodies had grabbed hold of one another, clinging to each other, so that when their souls departed, they would all be together.

Jehan and Bossuet were lying next to each other. It could only have been chance and the way their bodies were laid beside each other, but Jehan and Bossuet's hands were resting upon each other in such a particular way, anyone who looked upon them was certain that these two bodies were grasping each other's hand, holding it as tightly as they could, as their souls departed from into the next life.

Bossuet's other hand rested on the forearm of Bahorel.

Feuilly lied beside Jehan. His turned in a way so that his head rested on Jehan's arm. Upon looking at these two men, it seemed that Feuilly was weeping on his friend's shoulder. Jehan's other hand was reaching out towards Feuilly, resting upon him in a way that seemed like Jehan had been embracing him, trying to comfort him.

All the boys were that were in this line somehow holding onto each other. However, some of Enjolras's friends were cold and lonely, left to die somewhere alone. He did not see Marius in the line. Marius was one of his great friends. He had helped Enjolras lead the revolution. Courfeyrac, Joly, and Combeferre were dead on the floor upstairs, but a least they had each other. Grantaire was also upstairs, dead or dying, and all by himself.

Enjolras looked down the line of sleeping people, seeking out his friends. He found some of them but not all of them. There were many men there that Enjolras knew but did not know their names. There were several others that Enjolras did not even know. But now, all these men seemed like family, holding desperately onto one another, so that they would live forever together in paradise.

Then, Enjolras's eyes came to rest upon the woman. No, she was not a woman. She was just as girl. He did not know her very well, but he knew that she was Marius's good friend. She loved him. She had come to the barricade just to be with Marius, and she ended up taking a bullet to save his life. Now they were both dead.

Enjolras looked sadly down at the girl's face. She, too, like all the others, looked beautiful, gentle, peaceful. Her name was Eponine. Marius had told him this after the girl had died. "Her life was cold and dark, but she was unafraid."

Eponine lied beside a young boy, who was no older than the age of eight. Gavroche. Enjolras knew him. He was the life, the joy, the youth of the revolution. He was an orphan, homeless, and hungry, but he was happier than any other kid in Paris. Wherever Gavroche went, happiness went with him. The young child had bee killed at the barricade.

Eponine's arms were rapped around this little boy, as a mother holds her child to protect him. Not many people knew it, because the parents had decided to keep Eponine but cast Gavroche out onto the streets, but Gavroche was Eponine's little brother. Now they were both dead, and Eponine's arms cradled the child, protecting him, warming him, comforting him.

Wherever they were, Enjolras thought, Eponine would now protect this little child forever. He would never feel pain again, and the happiness that followed him around would bloom and prosper so much more now, that ever man that had ever died would become several times happier, several times younger, and several time more like this young, innocent, beautiful, poor child, who had nothing but, all the same, never stopped smiling.

After they left the café, Enjolras could not get the images of these dead friends out of his mind either. He could almost feel there presence hanging around him. A few times, he even looked over his shoulder, excepting to see one of them standing there, looking at him with a cold, dead face. He thought that their ghosts were looming around him, following him around, haunting him, tormenting him. For it was his fault that they were dead.

As he walked, as if in a trance through the street, with no longer the strength to resist, he caught a glimpse of the red river he was walking through.

_Red, the blood of angry men… _

Enjolras started breathing in deep breaths of the cool air around him. He did not realize, but this was making his lungs burn, quite the way one feels after he had been out in the snow, his hands become frozen, and he then comes inside and plunges them into a bucket of steaming hot water. But he did not realize. The numbness of the shock he was experiencing kept him from feeling anything. So, it completely caught him off guard when he suddenly doubled over and vomited all over the street in front of him.

The soldier who was now leading Enjolras—he did not remember this man taking Javert's place, but sometime during Enjolras's absent state of shock Javert must have order the man to take control of Enjolras—stopped suddenly and allowed Enjolras to crumple to his knees as he leaned over to heave again.

Once he started, he could not stop. Time after time, Enjolras threw up again and again. There was hardly anything in his stomach to come up, but somehow it kept coming. It burned his throat and hurt his chest. At last, there was nothing left in him to come up except for toxic stomach acid. He threw up at least three more times.

Enjolras stared blankly at the street in front of him, taking deep, painful breaths. Now, he could feel it. All of it. His head throbbed. His throat burned. His chest hurt. His lungs screamed. His ribs ached so bad that he could barely bring himself to keep breathing. But the worst pain was in his heart, as he remembered his dead friends.

"Get him to his feet," Enjolras heard Javert say from somewhere around him. Then he felt the soldier take him by his arms and pull him to his feet. Just as he stood Enjolras up, he started coughing terribly. Now all that awful fluid that filled his lungs when he breathed in the thick smoke that filled the café started coming up as well. This hurt the worst.

It hurt so bad. Enjolras wanted to stop. But he couldn't. Thick clots of disgusting mucus mixed with blood forced its way up his throat and came out through his mouth.

His chest felt like it was being ripped apart. His lungs felt as if they had been cooked and when he coughed sharp pain shot through them. This throat was soar and raw, and it burned like fire every time he coughed. Coughing made his ribs hurt even worse. His head hurt worse, too. He started getting dizzy and might have been in danger of fainting.

At last it ended, and Enjolras was left panting as he painfully breathed air into his aching lungs. He was on his knees again. It took him a few seconds to realize that the stone ground on which he was kneeling was stained red. For the first time, Enjolras raised his eyes and saw the world around him. It was terrible.

Dead people everywhere, some in inform, some in bleeding peasant clothing, many of them were Enjolras's friends. As he looked around, memoires of the battle flashed through his head, and he had to watch all over again as each of his friends died… Eponine. Jehan, Feuilly, Bahorel, Bossuet. Gavroche. Marius. Then, Courfeyrac, Joly, and Combeferre. Grantaire.

"Keep moving," Javert ordered. Someone pulled Enjolras back to his feet and they started forward again. Enjolras went along with them without a word and with out resistance. He was too weak, too exhausted, too hurt to resist if he tried. And besides that, he didn't care anymore. The revolution was dead. All his friends were dead. He had nothing left to live for. If Javert was going to kill him, he didn't care. Maybe, that was the best way. At least he would be with his friends. At least he would escape all of this suffering…

It could have been minutes or it could have been hours before they arrived at the gate of the prison; Enjolras wasn't sure. He had been thinking about his friends and had blocked out everything around him. The next thing he was aware of, they had arrived at the prison and Javert was calling to the guard to open the gate to let him through.

The gate let out a deep groaned as the warren began to turn the rusty weal to raise it. Javert turned to the soldiers who had accompanied him on this journey and addressed them. "Thank you, gentlemen. I will take him from here."

The soldier who held Enjolras came forward and escorted him to Javert. At once, Javert closed his iron hand around Enjolras's arm, taking possession of him. The soldiers bowed to Javert, then turned and walked away. Now Enjolras was left alone with the man who murdered Grantaire. As soon as the soldiers had turned their backs, Javert's stone cold, yet passive face, suddenly became dark and vengeful.

Enjolras looked back into Javert's face, despising him, hating him, not understanding how any man could be so cruel. Enjolras tried to look strong and bold as he glared back at Javert, but he could not hide the sadness in his face. In response to his sadness, Javert's face took on a faint look of pride, triumph, victory. Faint, but Enjolras could see it.

Javert suddenly looked away and pushed Enjolras forward, slamming both hands into his back. Enjolras stumbled through the gates of the prison, Javert trailing right on his heals. The prison was dark. Enjolras looked down the long, narrow corridor that extended into the darkness before him. The entire prison was made of large blocks of grey stone, the floor, the walls, the ceiling. It was cold. Vaguely, somewhere down the long corridor, Enjolras could hear a harsh voice shouting something. Probably one of these cold-hearted inspectors yelling at the prisoners.

"Keep moving," Javert ordered, pushing him by the shoulders to force Enjolras forward. He began to walk, not trying to resist. Javert steered him through long, dark corridors that all looked the same. It was not long before they arrived at the first variation to the stone walls, a door. Grabbing Enjolras tightly with one hand, as if he could go anywhere if he got away, Javert used his free hand to push the door open. Forcing Enjolras through before him, Javert entered whatever room the entrance led to, and then shut the door behind him.

They were standing in a small, square room, stone walls and ceiling like the rest of the prison, but there was a large red, green, and yellow carpet, marked with an ugly, outdated design, covering most of the floor. There was a large, wooden desk in the center of the room. Upon it sat tall stacks of papers, large, dusty books bound by worn leather covers, several bottles of ink, and quill pens to write with. Behind the desk, hanging, like a banner, on the wall behind the desk, covering most of the bare stone, was a huge French flag, which, judging by its dusty look and fades colors, was rather aged in years.

Aside of Enjolras and Javert, there were three other men in this room. Two of them, who stood in the back corner of the room conversing in low voices, wore crisp blue inspector uniforms, and large black hats, like Javert. But they did not have the metals, badges of honor, certificates of award, or warrants of authority, like Javert had. Javert was in charge of them both.

The other man, dressed in a black uniform, was seated behind the desk, writing something on large piece of yellow parchment. Upon hearing the door open, this man raised his head to see who had entered. As soon as he saw who had entered the room, the man became somewhat mortified and, at once, bowed his head in respect.

"Inspector Javert…"

With what might have passed as half a bow Javert replied, in his deep, emotionless voice, "Monsieur, Bellanger." Hostilely turning towards Enjolras to look at him with a face that a man might wear when he looks at a particularly repulsive bunch of gutted fish. "I have a man here who I have convicted for leading an uprising against His Majesty."

As Javert was saying this, the man had taken out one of the thick book, a quill pen, flipped through the pages, and had begun to write. "Name?" the man asked.

"Enjolras," Javert answered.

"He is now prisoner number 86592." The man scribbled something into the book and then handed Javert a small wooden plank that attacked to the chains that hung around each prisoner's necks. The numbers on the plank read, 86592.

"What is his sentence?" the man asked. "Death?" Before Javert had even answered, the man had already begun to write _"Death"_ in the space next to each prisoner's name, where most of the prisoners had the number of years they were to serve written.

This entire time, Enjolras had looked blackly across the room, staring at the French flag that huge for the back wall. He vaguely listened to the conversation between this man and Javert, but he was still thinking more about his friends. When the man asked, "What is his sentence? Death?" Enjolras, for some reason, almost opened his mouth to answer himself. _Yes. _To be hung, beheaded, or shot by the firing squad.If he had the choice, he would want to be shot. That way he would die that same way all of his friends did. But Javert answered before he could.

"No."

_What?_ For the first time since he arrived, Enjolras took his eyes off the flag and turned to look at Javert. Javert's face was passive, calm, just like it always was when he was talking to people with the government.

The man writing in the book looked as surprised as Enjolras felt. "He'll be under my authority," Javert said flatly. The man quickly nodded, and scribbled out the _"Dea"_ that he had already written beside _"Prisoner 86592"_ and replaced it with the words, _"Under the complete authority, command, and judgment of Inspector Javert."_

Enjolras stared uncomprehendingly at the words for a moment. Then it hit him. He_ was_ Javert's. "Under the complete authority, command, and judgment of Inspector Javert" meant that Javert was free to do whatever he wanted with him.

No! This wasn't right. This wasn't fair! Javert told the soldiers that he was going to be executed and Enjolras had accepted this sentence. He did not want to suffer anymore. He did not want to live anymore. He wanted to be with his friends, and they were dead. Enjolras wanted to die.

He looked suddenly at Javert, in surprise, anger, and fear. "He can't do that!" Enjolras protested.

"How dare you address the just Inspector?!" an unfamiliar voice boomed from across the side of the room. Enjolras turned his head to see that the other two inspectors who were talking in the corner of the room had turned their attention towards Javert and Enjolras, and now one of them stood angrily addressing him. When Enjolras looked blankly at the man he added with disgust, "You little wretch!"

Enjolras did not say anything.

"And, it just so happens," the man sitting behind the desk added in, "he can. The good Inspector Javert has received special authority from_ the_ _king, himself,_ giving him full rights over any criminal that he believes can be used to find justice."

Enjolras stared at the man for a long moment, every word he spoke turning through his mind. Finally, Enjolras spoke. "Used to find justice?" he repeated in a low voice. The man just stared back at him, a smug expression on his face.

Enjolras turned his head to look at the face of Inspection Javert. He saw the same thing he saw when Javert gripped his pistol as he planned out the murder of Grantaire. Javert was planning something more than he would say. Javert had something planned. Some sly, terrible scheme that would ensure that Enjolras would not die with his head held high… Just as Javert had promised.

Javert led Enjolras out of the little room, down the long dark hallway, through the winding maze of corridors, and finally, to the cells were the prisoners were being kept. There were only a few prisoners in them right now, because at this time of day, most of the prisoners were out working at the galleys. Only the men who were considered to dangerous to be let out of their cells were still inside.

Enjolras looked through the metal bars dividing the prisoners from them as he passed by their cells. Most of them did not even raise their heads as he and Javert went by, but kept them bowed down in misery. Enjolras noticed that every man these cells sat alone, huddled in the darkest corners of their cells, their heads bent, their arms and legs pulled tightly against their bodies. They were like stone gargoyles, bent, sad, and grey, not moving, not living.

Enjolras wondered if Javert was going to throw him in one of these cells to rot. But he doubted it… that would be too merciful.

They passed these cells and entered into a large room, which was the first room in the entire prison that Enjolras had seen with entrances to the outside world. There were a few doors, which now stood ajar, leading to the galleys. There was an inspector standing at each door, looking out at the prisoners at work. As Enjolras passed through the room, he couldn't help but move his eyes to look longing towards the warm golden sunlight that fell through the open doors. Through these doors, he could see lines of prisoners, all bearing heavy chains around their necks, wrists, and ankles, working to pull a massive ship into the docks.

Javert forced Enjolras across the room and towards another dark hallway. Enjolras watched the light of the sun fade as he began the decent down the narrow dark corridor, and he wondered when he would see sunlight again.

Down. That was the only direction that Enjolras was sure they were going. He had been trying to keep track of all the turns they had made as they travels through the dark maze of the prison, but he had lost track. The only thing he was sure of now was that for the last several minuets, they had traveled down several flights of stairs, some spiraling, and many sloping halls. Every time he descended another step, he thought about how much more stone separated him from freedom.

At last, they reached the bottle level of the prison. It was even colder down here. They passed a few guards on their way down the hall, but aside from them, Enjolras was certain that he and Javert were the only souls in this dark, cold, terrible place.

This floor was merely a corridor, wider than the others, but also much shorted. Javert led Enjolras down the hall, each side of it lined with heavy mettle doors. There was no telling what lied on the other side of these doors. Nothing could be heard except Javert and Enjolras's own foot steps as the walked down the eerily silent hallway. They did not need to walk long before Javert came to one of these doors, stopped, drew a rig of key out of his pocket, and, using one hand, unlocked the door, pushed it open, and then pushed Enjolras inside.

Enjolras stumbled through the door. His throbbing ribs were suddenly stabbed with a terrible sharp pain as Javert pushed him into the room, causing his body to jerk forward. He faltered for a moment before he regained his footing and straightened up, trying not to wince in pain. He looked around the room.

It was even smaller than the first room Javert had brought him to. The room could only have been about four square meters each way. Everything was stone, just like all the other rooms in the prison. But down here, there was mold and fungus growing in the narrow spaces between the stone blocks. There was nothing in the room at all except for a metal post in the center of it, running from the ceiling to the floor.

Why did Javert bring him here? There was nothing here. Anything that could be done in this room could be done in any other room of the prison. Enjolras scanned the room with his eyes, looking for something that he must have missed. Something that would suddenly make everything to make since. He noticed that the floor was slanted slightly downward, towards the left corner of the room. He followed this slope with his eyes. Here, in the far left corner of the room, there was a large barred opening in the floor, like a drain to a sewer. Enjolras stared thoughtfully at it for a moment, wondering why there would need to be a drain in this room. Then, as he looked at it, barely visible, he noticed the faint red stain on these bars.

_Red, the blood of angry men… _

"Bring me prisoner number 4461," Enjolras heard Javert say from behind him. He looked over his shoulder in time to see one of the young guards nod to Javert and disappear down the hall way. As soon as the man was out of sight, Javert turned to Enjolras and looked at him with dark, hungry eyes.

Enjolras felt his heart begin to race in his chest. In attempt to stay calm, to look unafraid, he began to draw in slow, controlled breaths. He stood facing Javert, his feet planted firmly in the stone ground beneath him. Enjolras's face became dark and hateful as he glared into Javert's face. He tried to be strong, stand bold and confident, the way he stood before death, when Grantaire was by his side. But Grantaire was not by his side now. Grantaire was dead. He was alone.

Javert slowly began to walk towards him, the same way he did when he first appeared in the café. Then, Grantaire had stepped in front of Enjolras, to keep Javert away, to protect his leader. But Grantaire was not here. Grantaire was dead…

Enjolras was afraid. He wanted to back away. But he did not. Instead he thought of Grantaire, who died trying to protect him. For Grantaire's sake—for all of his friends sake—Enjolras would try to die strong, still clinging to the pride of the revolution…

So, Enjolras held his ground. Javert kept approaching him until he was standing just a few feet in front of him. Enjolras looked at Javert, with dark eyes, and Javert looked back at him, wearing the face of a hungry beast.

Javert drew in a deep breath and heavily let it out. "Enjolras…" he spoke in a low, dangerous voice that made Enjolras shutter. "You've managed to cause a lot of trouble for someone so weak."

Enjolras didn't answer.

"You've killed a lot of good soldiers, caused the army a lot of trouble, made a mess of the streets of Paris, caused a lot of death, caused a lot of pain, but virtually, you have done nothing. You failed at everything. All that you have succeeded in is getting all of your friends killed."

Enjolras felt a rush of fury course through him. He gritted his teeth. "You killed my friends."

"No." Javert shook his head gravely. "You and all your traitorous revolutionaries killed many of France's honest, noble soldiers. Our soldiers were doing only their duty. Traitors and killers, such as yourselves, deserve death. What we did was justice. What you and your little friends did was murder."

"Grantaire didn't kill anyone," Enjolras growled. "Not a soul. He did nothing wrong." Enjolras's anger began to rise within him as he spoke. "He didn't even fire a gun. He did nothing wrong. Nothing!" This last word, Enjolras shouted. Anger boiled in Enjolras's face, burned in his eyes. He was breathing quick and heavily, like an angered beast. "He was innocent." Utterly disgusted, filled with wrath, burning with hatred, but crushed by sadness, Enjolras forced himself to snarl, "And you killed him."

Javert, completely unmoved by everything Enjolras had said, spoke, his voice flat, his face hard and unchanged. "The man had allied himself with the traitors. He was as guilty as the rest of you."

Enjolras tore his eyes away from Javert and stared angrily at the ground. He wanted to protest, but he knew he would not win. He let the anger smolder inside of him, but did not allow it to spill over. He hated Javert so much. He hated him more for saying these terrible things about his friends. And he hated him the most for killing Grantaire.

"You all deserve death," he heard Javert say darkly.

Without looking up from the floor, Enjolras clenched his teeth and in a dark, grave voice asked bitterly, "Then why am I still alive?"

"You wouldn't be… But I think you might still be of some use to me."

Enjolras slowly raised his eyes to look into Javert's dark face. "What do you want with me?"


	4. Chapter IV

Chapter IV

Javert did not answer for a long moment. He just stared back at Enjolras, wearing a face of stone. Then, he took a step closer to Enjolras, narrowing the already thin space between them. Javert opened his lips and began to speak, in a low, dangerous voice. "I want your knowledge."

Enjolras did not take his eyes of Javert. He did not respond.

Javert dropped his eyes from Enjolras as he reached into the pocket of his deep blue coat and pulled out an aged piece of parchment. Just from looking at the dusty, yellow color of this paper, Enjolras could see that it was very old. He watched as Javert unfolded it, revealing a portrait that someone had drawn in black ink. The picture was of a man's face. Who ever drew this picture must have spent a lot of time doing it because the picture was in such perfect detail that it appeared almost lifelike. Enjolras stared down at the parchment, the image on it meaning nothing to him. The man in the drawling had a face that was carved out of stone, hard, cold, hateful, but much of it was covered by a long, shaggy beard, and his head had no hair upon it. Enjolras had never seen this man before.

Looking for an answer, Enjolras looked up at the writing above the image. _"Wanted." _This must have been a criminal. Then he looked down at the inscription below the picture. _"1000 francs to any man that can provide the authorities with information regarding the whereabouts of this escaped convict. 3000 francs to any man that returns this convict to the prison. But beware to any who may attempt to approach this very crafty and highly dangerous man." _Below this, in a smaller script, it read: _"Prisoner number 24601. Jean Valjean."_

As soon as he had unfolded the paper and turned it so Enjolras could see it, Javert had fixed his eyes upon him and had not taken them off of him ever since. He stared at Enjolras, as if studying every hint of an emotion that crossed his face, as if trying to read his thoughts, as if seeking out the truth. "You know this man," Javert said, his voice hard and emotionless.

Enjolras looked up from the image to meet Javert's eyes. "No, I don't," he answered honestly. "I haven't seen this man in my life. I don't know who he is."

Sudden anger flashed through Javert's face. "Liar."

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. "I'm not lying," he answered flatly. And he wasn't.

Javert scolded. "Then let me tell you that this man was at the barricade with you."

This really caught Enjolras by surprise, and he found himself looking back down at the picture, straining his mind to try to match that face with someone he had seen at the barricade. He couldn't. The man in the drawling looked so dark, so hateful, so terrible. He was sure that if he had seen a man like this appear at the barricade, he would not have forgotten it.

Enjolras looked back at Javert. "I don't know this man," he repeated. "He was not at the barricade with us. You must be mistaking him for someone else."

This made Javert's face twist with anger. At the words "you must be mistaken," Javert suddenly took on the appearance of a dangerously furious animal, as if he could not tolerate to hear this revolutionary, a convict, a prisoner, and a murder, tell him, a great, honest, and noble, inspector, who had never once in his life broken the law, that he was wrong. "I am not mistaken," Javert spat.

But Enjolras was unyielding. "I do not know this man."

At his stubbornness and his nerve to refute him, Javert's anger began to rise even fiercer inside of him. "Perhaps, then, I should tell you some more about this man…"

"That would be grand idea, monsieur inspector."

Javert heard the dryness, the mockery, in Enjolras's voice and he could feel his patients being tried, pushed to the edge, and he would not hesitate to cross over it. He let out an angry breath and began, "This man's name is Jean Valjean; I don't know what he told you his name was, but whatever he said was a lie. He is a criminal and a dangerous man, who is running from the law. The man came to the barricade as a volunteer in French uniform. After he shot at some soldiers who were secretly surrounding your hideout, killing one of them before you and your men killed the rest of them, stealing these soldiers' lives in order to save yours, you agreed to give him the spy, who you expected him to execute."

As Javert spoke, Enjolras felt understanding slam him in the chest. At Javert's words "he came to the barricade as a volunteer in a French uniform," shock was the only thing Enjolras could process. He looked suddenly back at the drawling and stared at it for several moments, and tried to somehow match the cold, hateful face of the hideous man in the picture to the respectable, just face of the gentleman who had saved his life at the barricade. It took him several long moments of denial and doubting before some vague resemblance slowly began to evolve from the picture. This shock was almost greater than the first. The volunteer from the barricade, the man who had saved his life and then let their enemy go, this Jean Valjean, was a convict and the escaped prisoner of Javert.

Then, as Javert said, "you agreed to give him the spy, who you expected him to execute," Enjolras looked back up at Javert, staring at him with a new sort of horror. "The spy" was Javert. Enjolras had given this Valjean Javert, anticipating that he would be executed. But Javert was alive and standing before him. When Enjolras saw Javert's face, his innards froze. It was hideous, terrible, loathing, vengeful, murderous. For that one second, Enjolras was sure that Javert was going to kill him.

But Javert did not. He wanted to, and he would. But not until he first got what he wanted.

Enjolras looked at Javert, keeping his face as passive and indifferent as Javert's. "It is a pity that he let you go. If it had been my decision, I would have shot you."

Javert did not answer, but his eyes grew harsher. His anger brewed hotter, like metal so hot it has melted into liquid, and this liquid was being poured into an iron jar, rising within it, filling it, nearing the top, the point in which it would soon spill over, bringing horror and agony upon anyone it touched.

"I was not the only one who survived," Javert growled.

Enjolras raised his eyes, trying to keep an indifferent expression on his face. Another survivor? At the faint possibility that one of his friends might have also survived, a sudden burst of excitement and anticipation, a sudden flame of hope, was kindled within him. Maybe, Grantaire—no Grantaire was dead, but at the thought that he might see any one of the boys again, Enjolras's cold heart began in swell with longing and joy.

As he tried to keep a straight face, as he waited to hear the name, Enjolras felt certain that Javert was drawing this out on purpose just to torment him. It was only a few seconds but, to Enjolras, it was ages of anticipation.

"Valjean escaped."

_Oh. _Disappointment. Great disappointment fell upon him and, with it, the heavy burden of despair. Never seeing his friends again seemed even grimmer now that, for just that one moment, Enjolras was tricked into thinking that there was still hope. The pangs that stabbed Enjolras in the heart were bitter and cruel. For that moment, Enjolras felt that he was watching his friends die all over again, watching them slip out if his reach, watching as he lost them all. He missed them so much…

For the moment, Enjolras was lost in grief for his dead friends. He thought of little Gavroche, being killed without hesitation. He thought of Grantaire trying to protect him and getting shot for it. He though of his friends lying on the cold ground, side by side… They were all dead. How foolish Enjolras felt to think, for just a moment, that he might have seen them again.

Lost in his grief, Enjolras did not care about or consider Javert's claim of, "Valjean escaped." Enjolras's eyes fell upon the stone face of Javert, and he suddenly realized, with a start that a man would feel when he is suddenly jerked awake from sleep, that he was still in front of Javert, and, despite his grief for his lost friends, he would have to stay strong. Everything he said and did would determine his fait.

Trying to push his friends out of his head, and trying not to show the pain on his face, Enjolras straightened up to his full height and thought of Javert's words. "Valjean escaped." _Escaped._ That did not make any since at all. But not denying it, Javert had all but confirmed that, instead of killing him, Valjean had let him go. Yet, if Valjean _escaped_ the barricade, that meant that Javert was still after him. This made no since. Why, then, did Valjean let Javert go if he was not a spy from the French, if he not made a deal to do this in exchange for his freedom, if, by doing so, he had condemned himself? Now, Javert would not rest until he found this prisoner 24601.

None of this made since. Enjolras stared at Javert, no emotion passing over his marble face. "He escaped?" Enjolras repeated, his voice indifferent. "And, you are still fixed on capturing him? That is a fine way to repay the man who spared your life."

Javert came forward at him so suddenly, that Enjolras was sure Javert was about to strike him again, but instead, anger like thunder in his voice, Javert roared, "Once a man has broken the law, he has fallen. Once a man has fallen, he cannot be redeemed. The law may be hard, but it is just. I am the law. I am justice. I will not allow myself flatter. I will not stumble. I will not fall. In God's name, I will continue to pursue justice and I will stop at nothing until I have found it, no matter the consequences."

Enjolras never looked away from Javert's eyes. He finished speaking and a room fell into a deep silent. Finally, Enjolras spoke in a low voice. "And you think I can help you find this man?"

Javert did not answer for a moment. He studied Enjolras with an intensity so hard, Enjolras wanted to look away. But he did not.

"Yes."

Enjolras shook his head. "Well, I can't. I don't know anything about this man. I don't know where the man has gone. I can't help you find him."

Javert's face did not change. "Maybe, that is true and, maybe, it is not."

Enjolras did not expect this. Javert agreed that maybe, Enjolras did not know anything about Valjean, and yet, he thought that the young revolutionary could still be of use to him? How?

"You may not know anything about Valjean or his whereabouts," Javert began. "But you can still help me, if you are willing. You, who led the revolution, who spent so much time analyzing the streets of Paris, looking for hiding places, escape routs, for the best places to attack, you who knows everyman involved with the rebellion, you who have seen Valjean and everything that he did at the barricade, if you tried to uncover Valjean's motives there, you would be able to."

"I don't know anything," Enjolras protested. "I can't help you."

He had barely finished these words when Javert's hand struck him across the face, hitting him right in the bruised jaw that Javert had struck with his club when Enjolras was arrested in the café.

"Yes, you can!" Javert snarled, pushing his face just inches in front of Enjolras's. Taking a slight step backwards, Javert drew a small leather book and a pen out of the pocket of his uniform.

Enjolras slowly turned his head back to look at Javert, a fresh wave of pain rolling through his head. He said nothing.

Javert opened the book and turned to a new page that had nothing written on it. "You can start by giving me a list of the names of every man who went to the barricade, then tell me all of their family members, where they live, and any connections they might have had to Valjean."

When Enjolras said nothing, Javert glanced up at him and added, "Let me see… You have already given me one name. Grantaire, was it?" Enjolras watched Javert neatly write Grantaire's name in the top corner of the page. "Now, if you could give me the names of anyone he had relations with, where he lived, and anything he did concerning Valjean."

Enjolras did not answer. He stared at Javert, not seeming to understand what Javert wanted him to say. At last he spoke, "You want me to turn in my friends and their families?"

Javert, frowning, looked up from his book to glare at Enjolras.

Enjolras, suddenly furious and disgusted, cried, "You think I'm just going to turn them over to you?! You think I'll just betray the friends who died for me?! You think they meant nothing to me?! You think I'll betray them just to save my own skins?! You think, for just a minuet, that I'll help you?!" Enjolras shook his head, glaring at Javert in disgust. "You murdered my friends!" he yelled. "I'll never help you!" Then he spat in Javert's face.

At once, Enjolras saw a flash of metal as Javert suddenly drew a something out of his pocket. It was a knife.

Javert slowly stepped towards Enjolras and let the cold blade of his knife rest upon Enjolras's throat. The look in Javert's eyes was like that of a wild beast before he devours his prey. He spoke in a low, dangerous tone, "You will help me. You will tell me everything you know. You will lead me to prisoner 24601. …Or I will make you regret that you ever dared to challenge the authority of the law."

Then a knock came at the metal door, and a moment later, it opened. The young guard that Javert had been speaking to had returned. Now, there was another man with him. It was a criminal.

There is a man who is like the metal caught between a hammer and an anvil. When the hammer falls again, and again, in time, it changes the iron, molding it into a new shape, making it hard and impenetrable.

This man is a slave that is constantly abused and beaten by his master. The first time the whip falls upon this man's back, he cries out and seeks pity. But pity is never shown to him. Instead, he only receives more lashes. In time, this man learns to hold back his cries and he remains silent. Not only does he hold back his cries, but he holds back all emotion. His face becomes a hard, exterior mask that reveals nothing of what is going on in his head. This man, who does not know the meaning of love because he had never known love, or because too much cruelty has caused him to forget it. This man becomes a man who knows but one thing: darkness. Wickedness, cruelty, evil. He becomes a man of hatred who hates the world for hating him. The man's body strengthens, as his heart hardens, and as his soul darkens.

This was the man that Enjolras saw standing before him. This was all of the prisoners who had been turned to stone by the darkness of these terrible prisons.

The man's head was shaved, like all the other prisoners, and only short bristles or wiry roots remained on his head. Ugly scars, which only could have been what was left from beatings from the police, could be seen etched across the man's head. His face was overgrown with a filthy, tangle of black hair, intermingled with dried clumps of dirt, ash, and blood. Every exposed part of the man's skin, his face, his hands, his neck, was smeared with black grease and dirt. His shirt hung low on his chest, revealing a shaggy mess of hair. The man's clothes were worn tattered, stained, and ripped. It was obvious that he had been wearing the same garments, unwashed, untended to, for years. His shirt was red, which meant that he was a prisoner for life. The man wore chains around his wrists and ankles, which rattled whenever he moved. There was a wood card attached to the chain around the man's and upon it, Enjolras read the numbers 4461.

"Inspector Javert," the young guard said, as he entered the room, bringing the convict in behind him.

Javert turned from Enjolras to face the guard. "Thank you," Javert said, with a curt nod to the guard, who bowed and reply and then left the room, but now before handing something, which Enjolras could not quite make out, to Javert.

Prisoner 4461 then met Javert's eyes. He bowed low, muttering in a voice so soft that it could barely be heard, "Inspector Javert…"

"4461," Javert addressed the prisoner.

Out of spite and hatred Enjolras muttered, "The man has a name."

This comment only earned him another blow to the face from Javert.

"4461, I am in need of your service," Javert said, continuing as I Enjolras had not interfered.

"Yes, Inspector," 4461 mumbled. His voice was thin and raspy, and, again, he could barely be heard when he spoke.

"If you carry out your orders well and without delay, twenty francs will be sent to the house of your family."

The man nodded, not looking up from the stone ground.

Enjolras looked at the man, and felt pity. There was no wondering why this man was what he had become. Being trapped in this prison, doomed to be away from his family for the rest of his life, this man was in a suffering worse than physical affliction. As Enjolras looked at this ruined man, he was glad that he did not have a family.

Javert turned back to Enjolras. "This is your last chance to do things the easy way. If you refuse to talk, then I will make you talk."

Enjolras looked at Javert for a moment longer. He seemed to be considering things in his head. Then he spoke. "I don't know this man, Jean Valjean. I don't know why he came to the barricade, and I don't know where he's gone." Then with, purely out of defiance, Enjolras spat, "And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you."

Javert's face did not change, as if this did not make a difference to him, as if he would get what he wanted one way or another. "Very well. 4461, I you please."

The prisoner, who until this moment, had continued to stare at the ground, glanced at Javert and gave a small nod. Then he went forward, approaching Enjolras. The man kept his gaze fixed on the ground, never once able to meet Enjolras's eyes.

The man must have done this type of "survive" for Javert on several occasions, because just from the words, "4461, if you please," he knew exactly what Javert was commanding him to do.

He started by unwinding the ropes around Enjolras's wrists, freeing his hands so that he could remove his red coat. The slight moment of the coat's fabric sliding across Enjolras's skin made his ribs burn like fire. Next, the man took off Enjolras's shirt, revealing that the entire right side of Enjolras's torso was blackened, swollen, and inflamed. The ugly bruises covering his body were black, purple, and red, and by the swelling bulge, it was obvious that they were filling with fluid.

Then the prisoner turned to Javert, he said nothing but the look on his face seemed to ask Javert, "Is this enough?" A quick shake of the head from Javert told the prisoner that his work was not done, and the man, never once looking at Enjolras's face, proceeded to remove his boots and then, the rest of his clothing. 4461 then used the rope to bind Enjolras to the pole in the middle of the room. After this was done, he retired and went to the corner of the room, staring at the floor, awaiting more orders from Javert.

Enjolras now stood in the middle of the room, his hands bond to the pole in front of him, so that his bare back was exposed to anyone behind him but his face was still doomed to look at Javert, who stood in front of him, nothing between him and Javert except for the metal pole, which he was bond to. Any boldness or pride Enjolras might have had left suddenly left him. Now, feeling very vulnerable and humiliated, it was all Enjolras cold do not to hang his head in shame as he felt Javert's terrible gaze penetrating him like a knife. It was difficult, but Enjolras forced himself to stare back into Javert's face, looking him in the eye.

"Have you anything you would like to reconsider before we begin?" Javert asked flatly.

"No."

"4461…"

Javert then held the object that the guard had handed him when he entered the room. Now, Enjolras could see that it was a long, flexible wooden bow, which was often used for beating prisoners. Without looking up from the ground, 4461 went to Javert, took the bow in his hands and silently moved across the room until he disappeared behind Enjolras.

Javert ordered, "Proceed."

A quick swooshing sound, which was abruptly cut off, and then the impact. Enjolras choked on the pain as the wooden rod cracked over his back. Pain spread across his back, burning like fire, but it was even worse on his already broken ribs. The impact of the blow seemed to have knocked all of the air from him. Enjolras had just managed to pull air back into his lungs, when the rod struck him again. Enjolras felt the same pain again… but this time it was even worse.

Prisoner number 4461 had been working in at the galleys for several years now. The terrible strenuous work that the prisoners were forced to do, had made him very strong and powerful. Ever time his swung the rod, driving into a prisoner's flesh, the impact was enough to make them scream with pain. That was why the inspectors had chosen him to be the one to punish other prisoners. The first time they offered him this job, he had refused, but then, when they offered his family money, what choice did he have? So when ever the police were trying to get something out of a prisoner who would not talk, twenty francs were sent home to 4461's family.

4461 was very strong. As all of the inspectors had come to understand, one strike from him would make a man cry out. Ten strikes would make a man scream. Twenty strikes would have a man begging for mercy. Not many men could endure more than thirty strikes from 4461. Sometimes it took several day and several beatings, but whenever 4461 struck a man, he would eventually give in and tell the police everything that they wanted to know.

Enjolras closed his jaws tightly together, biting down on his lip, tasting blood in his mouth, to keep himself from crying out in pain. After six strikes, his head began to spin and he could feel his limbs giving out, going limp. His fingers began to claw at the metal pole that his hands were bound to, and he leaned against it, trying to hold himself up.

Seven, eight, nine….

Enjolras's vision began to get burly.

Ten, eleven, twelve…

Enjolras felt cold sweat running down his body. He pinched his eyes shut and pressed his head against the cold metal bar in front of him, trying to keep a hold on himself.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…

Pain chocked him, blinded him. Darkness was closing in over his eyes. He felt like there was a fierce ocean, a stormy sea, raging inside of his head. His chest caved in. He couldn't breath.

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…

He was going to pass out…

Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one…

Enjolras forced his eyes open and looked across the room in front of him. Javert was standing across the room watching him, his hands folded behind his back, his face blank of emotion, his cold, merciless eyes fixed on Enjolras. This was the same face Javert wore when he watched the prisoners suffer as the worked at the galleys.

Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four…

Enjolras closed his eyes and slammed his head into the metal pole, gripping it so tightly with his fingers that they began to bleed. The sound of the bow slamming into his back began to echo through his head, and it sounded like guns going off somewhere in the distance. Guns. The battle. His dead friends… Enjolras watched his friends dying, again, before his eyes. Every time the bow cracked and the pain struck him, cutting through his body like a bullet, Enjolras imagined the bullets that pierce his friends and he saw each one of them drop dead.

First strike. Eponine.

Second strike. Jehan.

Feuilly, Bahorel, Bossuet.

Gavroche, Marius, Courfeyrac.

Joly, Combeferre…

….Grantaire….

Enjolras vaguely heard voices, but he couldn't understand what they were saying. He opened his eyes. He watched the world spin for a moment, as if slowly came into focus. His hands were tied above his head, and his body was slumped, handing limply by his wrists. Pain pulsed through his body.

Panic, fear, and confusion took him at once as he suddenly realized where he was. Jolting back into full consciousness, Enjolras gripped the pole with his hands and tried to stand up.

Pain. It hit him so suddenly and so terribly that he almost passed out again. Enjolras tried to suppress the quiet sound of pain that escaped his lips as his legs gave out and he slumped limply against the pole. He heard a deep, cold voice say something from across the room. He raised his eyes and saw Javert.

What used to be Enjolras back, was now a red mess of raw, bleeding flesh. Thirty-seven strikes was the final number of time that Enjolras had been hit. He had passed out at number thirty-five.

This troubled Javert because Enjolras was already hurt, and it had taken this many blows to knock him out. But it troubled him even more because Enjolras never once cried out in pain. But what did it matter? Javert would make him talk soon enough. Enjolras was only a man, and a rather weak man, as far as Javert was concerned. It would not be long before he would not be able to bare it, and he would give in. Javert was certain of this.

"That is enough for now," Javert said to prisoner 4461. "Come with me and I will escort you back to your cell."

"My family gets twenty francs," Enjolras heard the man mutter from somewhere in the room.

"It will be sent to them in time," Javert answered brusquely. Javert turned his eyes to rest on Enjolras, and he added, "Move this man and tie him in front of the post, his hands behind his back."

More pain came as the prisoner untied the ropes around Enjolras's wrists. As soon as his hands were free from the pole and there was nothing to hold him up, Enjolras's body slid limply to the ground and he lied there motionlessly, panting as he breathed in deep breaths, breathing through the pain, his face down, his body pressed against the cold stone floor.

He felt the prisoner's strong hands grasp him under his arms and lift his body of the ground. Pain shot through him and Enjolras let out a quiet moan. The prisoner, still never looking at Enjolras, moved his body so that he was slumped in front of the pole, leaning against it. When the hard metal pole touched his raw back, Enjolras moaned again. The man then bound his hands behind his back, tying him to the pole. This whole time, the prisoner had been handling Enjolras with very gentle care, but even this hurt so bad that Enjolras did not notice.

Javert's back was now turned to these to men and he stood, like a statue, on the other side of the door way.

Enjolras stared, feeling in a daze, at Javert's back, wishing that the man would have shown up a second later, after him and Grantaire had been shot. Then they would have died standing side by side. But now he was here. Grantaire was dead. And Javert was going to torture him until he was dead…

Prisoner 4461 suddenly moved in front of Enjolras, kneeled down before him, and gently used his sleeve to wipe some blood off of Enjolras's lip.

Enjolras looked into the man's face, staring at him utterly lost and confused. For the first time, the man looked Enjolras in the eye, and Enjolras stared back into the pale, cold eyes before him. They were a grey oblivion, void of anything and everything. They were the eyes of a man who is no longer living. Eyes that would have better fit a corpse.

4461 opened his lips and, for the first and only time that every occurred, spoke to Enjolras. His voice was like his eyes, lacking everything. Emotionless, empty, dead.

"My children are starving. I had to do it."

Then, without another word, 446l rose to his feet, turned his back to Enjolras, went out the door, and was gone.


	5. Chapter V

Chapter V

Just moments after Javert had led the soldiers and Enjolras out of the café, another man had silently slipped through the door behind them, going into it. Nobody saw him go in.

As soon as the man went through the door, he saw the line of fallen revolutionaries, lying side by side. At once, he went to them. He approached the first body in the line, the one closest to him, and kneeled down beside it. Then, he violently began to run his hands through the dead man's pockets.

A few moments later, the man was back on his feet. He went to the next person in line, knelt down before him, and began to search this man, as well. It was as if he one of these dead boys had something of his and now he was looking for it, desperate to get it back.

After he had torn apart the second man's pockets, searched his entire body, and greatly disgraced the resting place of the dead, he moved onto the next man. He went down the entire line in this way, roughly searching every person, carelessly and heedlessly disrupting the beauty of these young people, lying beside each other, clinging to each other even in death.

When the man came to the woman, who lay still in the line among all the men, he stopped. The man stared down at the girl for a long moment. If anyone had been there to look upon his face, he would have been able to see that this man was in deep thought, but he would not have been able to guess what this man was thinking about.

It seemed that he might have recognized this woman. He moved his eyes, and they fell upon the child lying beside her. He looked at the boy the same way. He continued to stare at these two creatures, these two young, beautiful, innocent children, for some time. Then suddenly seeming indifferent to them, he began to rifle them just like the others.

He found nothing in either of their pockets. His made his already ugly face take on a very unpleasant expression, as if he had just tasted something very sour. He moved on to the next man in the line.

When he had thoroughly searched each body in the line, the man got to his feet and went up the stairs. There was a narrow hallway on the upper floor of the café, and five rooms branching off of this hallway, two on each side of the hall and one at the end of it. Four of these rooms were on fire.

Ignoring the flames, as if they were not even there, the man went into each other these rooms, starting with the ones on the sides of the hall—the rooms on fire. He did not have to stay in these rooms long, though, because there was no one in them, no one dead or alive. Feeling somewhat disappointed, he went into the fifth room at the end of the hall.

As soon as he went into this room, he was delighted to see three dead bodies lying in the center of the room. At once, the man was upon them, searching them, disgracing them, destroying them. Of the first body, the man found six francs in his pockets, which he kept, a nice watch connected to a shiny golden chain, which he kept, and an unloaded pistol, which he kept. Much to his displeasure, the man found nothing on the persons of the second body except for a few used cigars, which, nonetheless, he decided to keep, but on the third body, the man found another pistol, three golden rings, a few spare francs, and he also took the five golden buttons on the man's coat.

After this, the man straightened up and looked around the room, greedy for more. Another thrill of delight passed through him when he saw another man lying of the floor, just in front of the large window in the back of the room.

The dead man lay face down in a pool of blood, his head resting on the wooden planks so that whoever looked at him could see his face. His eyes were closed.

Completely undisturbed by the blood, or by any of the gory horrors he had seen that day, the man went straight to the corpse, hungry for whatever he might find. He roughly seized the dead man by his shoulders and flipped him over, so that he lay on his back. Then, the man went straight to work, searching through the corpse's pockets.

The man didn't find much of value on this man, but he did find three sous in the man's pocket. The only other thing he found in the man's pockets was a folded pierce of paper, which he did not bother to look at before he stuffed it into his own pocket with the rest of his treasures. The man then noticed the pocket on the vest of the dead man and, at once, he ripped the pocket open and plunged his hands into it.

Then, the dead man moaned, slightly moved his head, and winced in pain.

The man froze. He looked down at the corpse, shocked that this dead man was still alive. A few seconds later, the dead man opened his eyes.

As soon as the door shut between him and Enjolras, Grantaire had closed his eyes, and yielded to death, letting it take him. Almost at once, he was unconscious. Dying was not hard. It was painless, peaceful. As Grantaire lay there, his eyes closed, his soul began to depart, and he felt that he was slowly rising up out of the darkness and ascending into a world of light. All the sadness, pain, fear left him and he was happier than he had ever felt. Then he saw a light.

A brilliant light rose swiftly out of the darkness, coming out of nothing, like a candle being lit. But this light was much more magnificent than a candle. At first Grantaire, thought it was the sun. But it could not have been the same sun that rose each morning over France. This light glowed pure white, more perfect, more beautiful than anything that it could be compared to on this earth. It was the brightest light that Grantaire had ever seen before, so clear and pure, yet, somehow, it did not hurt too look upon. When the light fell upon him, it felt so warm, so gentle, so… indescribable… When it touched him, Grantaire could feel it healing him, taking the pain away.

The light was slowly coming closer to him, and Grantaire could feel His power, His radiance, His majesty, His divine awesomeness being pored out onto him. Grantaire wanted to go to the light. He wanted to get to it so that it would have him away. Why would He not take him now? It seemed that this Devine Being had not come to take Grantaire away, as he wished He would, but to stay with him and comfort him, to assure him that He was with him.

Then, the light began to slowly recede away, and Grantaire felt deep dread and sadness caving in on him. He wanted the light to stay. But it would not. It began to fade away and darkness started closing in.

A moment later, Grantaire felt terrible pangs of pain slicing through his body like the cold blades of knives. Trapped in a confused world of semi-consciousness, Grantaire felt hash hands violently handing his body. He opened his eyes, and he saw a man standing over him.

The man had a long, pale face and a large forehead, on which his red eyebrows were arced, high above his eyes. He had a large nose, full pink lips that seemed to stretch a little to far across his face, and a poorly shaven chin, scattered with short, unevenly trimmed whiskers. His messy red hair, curly and wild, and huge shaggy sideburns sat around his head like a furry helmet. His eyes, a light brownish color, the color of brandy, were encircled by the dark shadows that stretched from his brows to the lids under his eyes. The way his eyelids slightly sagged over his eyes, as if they were too heavy to hold up, gave the impression that this man was very tired or very stupid. But there was a certain gleam in the man's eyes, a sort of cunning light that could only be found in the eyes of a man who was a rough, a trickster, a liar, and a thief. And a man who was very good at all of it. There was one other thing about this man that Grantaire recognized at once. This man was an alcoholic, so they had something in common.

Grantaire stared uncomprehending up at the man. The man stared back at him, wearing the face of a man who had been caught while in the act of commit a crime.

Grantaire opened his lips. "Who are you?" he barely managed to choke out.

The man did not answer.

"Are you with the rebels or the army?"

"Neither," the man answered, although his stunned face did not change. "I am a poor citizen who is helping to round up the bodies of fallen. I thought you were dead, but now I see that you are not."

Pain was radiating from the place on Grantaire's side where the bullet had pierced him. The pain was the worst there, but it seemed to spread out, emitting through him so that his entire body ached. Grantaire weakly raised his hand to press it against his wound. At the slight, tenderness of his own touch, Grantaire felt that another bullet had just pierced him. He closed his eyes.

"The question is," Grantaire heard the man continue, "who are you?" The man narrowed his eyes and looked at Grantaire for a long moment. Then he went on, "You are one of them, the revolutionaries, are you not?" A moment later, answering his own question, he cried out, "Of course you are! I recognize you! I've seen you with them before, in this very café. What is your name? I don't know, I can't recall it, but I know your face! Yes, there is no doubt. You are one of the rebels."

This entire time, Grantaire had reacted to nothing the man had said, but kept his eyes closed, trying not to be overrun by the terrible pain. Now that the man had finished speaking, Grantaire opened his eyes and forced his mouth to move so he could mutter, "Can you help me?"

The man shook his head. "I'm afraid I cannot."

Despair falling over him, Grantaire closed his eyes again.

"I don't think you understand what you are asking of me, the peril I would have to put myself in for you. You are a revolutionary and a criminal. If I, an honest citizen, helped you, then under this law, I would also be convicted of treason. This is something I cannot risk. If I were to be caught by the police, I would be sent to jail. No, I cannot help you."

"Please…" Grantaire whispered desperately. "I can make it up to you… I'll do…anything you'd like."

For a moment, the man seemed to be considering this. Then he shook his head. "There is too much to lose and not enough to gain. I cannot help you." The man turned to leave.

"No, please, monsieur, wait!" Grantaire pleaded. Every time he spoke, his voice was getting weaker, as if one could hear his strength and his life draining out of him. The man turned back to Grantaire, wearing a very annoyed look on his face. "I have money," Grantaire told him. "I'll pay you…"

At the mention of "money" a quick look of hungry desire flashed across the man's face. He raised his eyebrows. "The price would not be cheap. You are asking me to risk everything I have here."

"I know," Grantaire said quietly. "I'd be very grateful, monsieur, and I can pay you… a hundred francs, at least."

"A hundred francs!" the man cried out, his face twisting into a look of utter disgust. "I do not think you understand what I would be doing for you, what danger I would be putting myself in. If the police catch me, it will cost me my freedom, my family, my life. And if I am thrown in jail, what will become of my family? My entire world would be ruined. And for what?! A hundred francs?!" the man's face took on that sour expression again. "No, the price would have to be much greater than that."

In truth, Grantaire did not have very much money. Most of the money he earned he won by gambling, by making bets and playing card games, and most of the money he earned quickly vanished, as he used it all to buy wine. Grantaire had close to no money. But he thought he knew where he would be able to get enough to appease this reluctant citizen.

"How much, then?" Grantaire murmured.

"Five hundred francs, at least."

"Fine."

The man raised an eyebrow in doubt. "You will be able to pay me this much?"

"Yes."

"And without dely. Right away. I won't have you scrounging around, scraping up every spare sou you can find, and take several years before you finally pay me what you're due. I want it at once. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Good. Because if it turns out that you have lied to me, I will have no choice but to turn you into the authorities, and then you will be the one rotting in prison."

"Yes, monsieur, I understand," Grantaire said quickly, starting to panic. He felt his hand bathing in the hot blood that continued to slip out from his wound. He knew he was running out of time.

"And, of course," the man went on, as if he had suddenly thought of something else, "if you were to die, not survive, then I would not get the money I wanted…" He looked down at the blood soaking through Grantaire's clothes and stared at it thoughtfully for a moment. "You were shot in the stomach," he said. "Few people survive these wounds."

"Not my stomach," Grantaire mumbled, barely able to keep his eyes open. "Lower and to the side… near my hip…"

"Let me see it." The man suddenly seized Grantaire and carelessly tore his shirt up to reveal his wound. This caused pain to shoot through his body and Grantaire let out a weak cried of pain.

"Yes, that is a wound," the man declared, as if Grantaire was too stupid to figure that out for himself. "It is not as bad as it might have been, but still it is deadly… and you have already lost so much blood. I cannot be sure that you will survive."

"If I die then everything I have will go to you. I don't know how much it is, but it will all be yours, monsieur," Grantaire desperately whispered. His voice was becoming so weak now, that he could barely be heard.

"Does that amount up to five hundred francs?" the man asked, suddenly very suspiciously.

"I don't know. You could sell all of my things for probably that much…" he muttered doubtfully.

The man seemed to be considering this. "I need, then, to know your name and where you live."

"Grantaire. 126 Rue Saint-Hyacinthe. It's right across the street."

"Very well, then. And if you do survive you can be sure to provide me with five hundred francs, _at once?_"

"Yes, monsieur," Grantaire breathed, his voice barely audible. "Please, hurry. I can't pay you if I'm dead…"

For the first time, the man looked at Grantaire with what might have been supposed to be sympathy. "Monsieur, you will not die." This was the first time the man had addressed Grantaire using any respect, or called him "monsieur."

The man, then, took Grantaire's limp body and carelessly swung him up over his shoulder, as if he were carrying a sack of flour. The wound on Grantaire's hip hit hard, making painful impact, against the man's bony shoulder. As pain coursed through his body, his head began to spin, and darkness began to close in over his eyes, Grantaire heard the man say one last thing. His voice, for just that moment, was greedy, hungry, and terrible.

"I will see to it…"


	6. Chapter VI

Chapter VI

Women were whispering. Talking in hushed, but clearly exited, voices. Giggling. Then, hushing one another.

Grantaire opened his eyes and saw several faces looking down at him at once. As soon as he opened his eyes, many of the women watching him gasped, or smiled, or turned to one another and started whispering excitedly.

Grantaire stared up at these women in confusion, trying to figure out where he was and how he got there. He slightly shifted on the soft bed, which he now laid on, and a sharp pain in his side reminded him about getting shot, about Enjolras getting captured, about bargaining with a man to save his life…

Grantaire slowly moved his hand to touch the spot where the bullet had pierced him. His fingers lightly brushed against his bare skin. He could feel the thick stitches that had taken the place of the gapping wound that emitted hot blood.

_What happened?_

The last thing Grantaire could remember, he was lying on the floor of the café, in front of the window where he had been shot. Then the man had appeared. He could remember making a deal with the man. He had promised the man five hundred francs if, in exchange, the man was able to save his life. Apparently, the man had succeeded…

Grantaire had a vague memory of this man, but he could remember very much what the man looked like. For a moment, Grantaire strained his mind, trying to remember… But he could not. It was like trying to recall a dream that a man had a faint inkling of, but would never be able to remember in its fullness.

It didn't matter, anyway. Quite soon, no doubt, the man would reappear to demand his five hundred francs. Then, where was Grantaire now? He slowly moved his eyes to look at the faces hovering over him. All women. None of them did he recognize.

With much effort, Grantaire sat up.

He was resting in a large bed of a soft, comfortable mattress, fuzzy warm blankets, multiple pillows behind his head, and a red canopy that hung over the bed, the sides of which were currently drawn against the tall wooden frames of the bed.

Apparently, whoever had removed the bullet fragments from Grantaire's wound and stitched him up had also bathed him, because when the man found him in the café he was completely soaked with blood and now there was not a trance of blood on him. He was wearing a loose pair of baggy black pants that were not his; the light colored pants that he had been wearing when he was shot had been dyed completely red by the time that man had found him. His vest and shirt had been removed and he now sat on the bed, the upper half of his body unclothed.

There were women all around him. There were at least fifteen of them… maybe more… Grantaire counted six sitting on the bed around him. More of them were around the room on chairs, on the floor, or leaning against the walls. Every one of them had fixed her eyes on Grantaire, watching him with a sort of exited wonder. When Grantaire sat up, the women shifted so that he had room to sit comfortably on the bed. As he looked around at each of them, they smiled, or blushed, or giggled.

All of the women were dressed in colorful dresses that exposed a lot of bare skin, and had long flowing hair that fell over their shoulders in waves. Most of them had makeup thickly applied to their faces, and many of them had flowers decorating their hair. Most of them were young, about Grantaire's age, but some of them were older. They were pretty, but just by looking at them a man could see that they were poor, starving, and just barely making enough money to stay alive.

Sitting up made Grantaire's wound hurt worse. He drew in a deep breath, trying to analyze his condition. Aside from the pain from the bullet, Grantaire's head hurt and he felt unsteady and dizzy. His throat and lungs were sore, too, and they burned whenever he inhaled; he guessed this was the result of breathing in so much smoke in the café. He couldn't imagine how terrible it had to be for Enjolras, who was in the café, breathing in the fumes, much longer than he was. But beside that, his bottom lip was sore and scabbing over.

Grantaire turned to the woman sitting closest to him and addressed her. "You got'a drink?"

The woman smiled at Grantaire before she turned one of the other women standing beside the bed and said something softly to her. She quickly nodded and then disappeared. The woman turned back to Grantaire and gently laid her hand upon his shoulder.

"Um…" the woman dropped her eyes away from Grantaire, and he could see her blushing under her makeup. He got the impression that these women might have been trying to hide something from him. "How do you feel?"

"I've been better."

The woman's took on a look of concern and sympathy. "You poor dear," she said quietly. She raised her hand to gently brush a stray curl of hair out of his face. "Don't worry. We'll have you feeling better in no time."

Grantaire, very slightly, moved the position of his body and a terrible pain shot through him. The sudden pain cut his breath off short, similar to the impact of being hit in the gut. Breathing deeply, Grantaire looked down at his bare body to look at the place where the bullet had broken through his flesh. Thick black stitches now held the wound together, in a sort of diagonal line just above his hip bone. The flesh around the wound was red and swollen. His entire hip and in a straight line, moving up his side, was darkened by bruising. Grantaire carefully placed his hand on top the wound and left it there, as if by doing so he might be able to hold back the pain.

After a moment, Grantaire raised his eyes to back at the women around him. "Who was it who did this for me?" he asked, vaguely motioning the hand that rested over his stitches.

"We did," one of the women replied.

Grantaire was not reassured, but, either way, he was grateful. "Thanks." Dropping his gaze from the women, he hesitated for a moment, and then with a soft chuckle he looked back up at them and asked, "And you women bathed me too?"

At this, every woman in the room looked away, their faces going red, unable to stifle the smiles spreading across their lips, and some of them glanced nervously up at Grantaire, as if expecting him to get angry.

Grantaire shrugged. _Ow!_ That hurt, but he tried not to show it. "I don't mind. You girls saved my life." The women looked back up at Grantaire, their cheeks pink, sweet smiles on their lips. An alluring grin spread across Grantaire's lips and he offered, "We'll consider it the first step in getting to know each other." This made the woman giggle and look away again.

Grantaire knew how to deal with women.

The girl who had left the room reappeared with a bottle of wine in her hand. Grantaire couldn't help but watch the bottle longingly as she crossed the room and it slow came towards him. The girl handed him the bottle and he took it, at once, and lifted it to his lips.

Wine to a drunkard is water to a man dying of thirst. As water gives strength to a sober man, wine rejuvenates the drunkard. Before he had even lowered the bottle from his lips, Grantaire had emptied about a third of it. He finally brought it down and let it rest against the bed between his legs.

"Thank you very much," Grantaire said sincerely to the woman who had brought him the wine. When he said it, there seemed to be more gratitude in his voice than when he was thanking them for saving his life. On the contrary to what alcohol will do to a stable man, after a few more swigs, the throbbing in Grantaire's head, as well as the dizziness, began to lessen. A few more sips and the aching in his body began to wane, also. Grantaire felt considerably better.

"What happened to you?" one of the other women asked. "A man brought you here and asked us to take care of you."

"You were not moving and you were covered with blood…" the woman sitting beside Grantaire said softly. "We thought you were dead."

"What happened? Were you in the battle? Are you a soldier?"

Grantaire tried not to show the disappointment on his face as he heard each of these questions. He had a feeling it would come to this. But he did not know how to answer. He could not tell them the truth. He couldn't let anyone know that he was part of the revolution. If the wrong ears heard this and the police found out, that would ruin every hope he had left. So Grantaire gave them an explanation… slightly altered, of course.

"No," Grantaire said shaking his head. "You see, I really enjoy drinking wine," he grinned nodding to the bottle in his hand. "There's this café across the street from where I live and I like to go there to buy it. But unfortunately, the rebels decided to use this same café to host a battle." He sighed. "I guess I was just at the wrong place at the wrong time…"

"You poor thing," the women beside Grantaire said, her voice swelling with pity and compassion. She began to lightly stroke his shoulder with her fingers. "Just give it a little time and you'll be as good as new."

Grantaire did not say anything for a moment. Then, he spoke, his voice flat, betraying no emotion. "How much time?"

The woman sympathetically tilted her head as she looked into Grantaire's face. "I don't know… at least a couple weeks."

"I can't stay that long," Grantaire said bluntly.

This seemed to surprise the woman. "Why not?"

"I just can't."

"But you're hurt. You should really stay so we can take care of you."

Grantaire shook his head. "I can't stay. I have to go."

"When?"

"Tonight."

"Tonight?!" the woman cried out, shocked, aghast. "You can't leave tonight! We just finished stitching you up this morning!"

Grantaire shook his head. "I have to. You don't understand. I just… I really have to go."

"But you can't," the woman protested. "You can't—can you even walk?"

"Of course, I can," Grantaire told her, but in truth, he was not sure. "It really doesn't hurt very much right now. I feel… great, actually." He tried to sound bright and sincere as he said this, but even Grantaire's smooth tongue sounded false as he declared these last few words.

The woman sighed, frowning at Grantaire, obviously not believing a word he had just said. "You have to at least stay a few days."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

_Because every minuet I sit here, it gives me one minuet less to get to Enjolras before they kill him. _Grantaire looked away, letting out a heavy breath. "I just can't."

"Ladies, if you please…"

Grantaire looked up and saw a man entering the room. All the women turned to him at the same time, looking at this man with a sort of obedience and respect.

"There are some gentlemen downstairs who would like to meet you all, so please…"

The women, looking rather disappointed, glumly got up and left the room, like a flock of colorful birds, spreading their wings, taking flight, and departing out of sight. Only the woman who sat next to Grantaire remained.

The man, who remained standing in the center of the room, frowned at her. "Adéle, that means you, too."

The woman frowned at the man, but she said nothing. She looked over at Grantaire one more time, brushed that same piece of hair, which had a habit of falling back over his eye, out of his face, then got up and let the room.

Grantaire watched her leave, and then he turned to address the man. "So you're the pimp?"

The man frowned. "So you're the rebel who survived."

Grantaire made a face as if he had never heard such an absurd thing in his life. "So I'm the unfortunate citizen who got trapped between the lines of fire."

The man probably would not have believed it, but the expression on his face, the sound in his voice, the sincerity of his words, he did not see how this man could have been lying. Grantaire was good at lying.

The man frowned, and looked blankly at the wall across the room. He said nothing for a moment. He seemed to be in deep thought. He raised his eyes to look back at Grantaire. "How do you know the man who brought you here?"

Grantaire let out a breath that might have been a stifled laugh. "I don't. I don't even know who he is." He raised his bottle and just before he took another sip, he asked, "How do you know him? He a customer here or something?"

The man shrugged in a way that said, _"Maybe, but I'm not telling you."_

"Do you know the man's name?"

The man looked suddenly at him, his eyes narrowed, his face suspicious. "Why do you care?"

Grantaire, as if he really couldn't care less, took another sip of wine. "I owe him five hundred francs. That was the barging we made, in order for him to save my life."

"I know," the man replied. "I've already been informed of this."

"Oh." This surprised Grantaire, but he tried not to act that it mattered. "Then, is that why you're here, to retrieve the money from me? Because I'll just tell you now that I have nothing with me, except for a few spare sous that I had in my pocket, and I don't know where they've gotten off to either."

The man frowned. "Monsieur is here to collect the money himself."

Grantaire laughed humorously, and, with a mocking air, he retorted, "Well, you can tell monsieur that I'd be glad to bring him the money but I'll have to be able to walk first before I can get it to him."

The man's frown got even darker. "I'll let you tell monsieur that yourself."

_Damn. _Grantaire had not been anticipating this. He knew that he would have to confront the man soon… but not _this_ soon. He felt a deep feeling of dread twist in his gut and he had to restrain himself from groaning and rolling his eyes. "Is he here now?"

"Yes."

Grantaire sighed, no longer trying to hide his displeasure. "Sure, let him come in…"

The man turned and left the room, leaving Grantaire alone. He stared at the wall in front of him, dreading the confrontation that was soon to come. He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a very long drink.

The door was thrown loudly open and someone noisily barged into the room. Grantaire turned to see a very unhappy looking man come in and close the door behind him. _Yup, that's him,_ Grantaire thought when his eyes fell upon the very unpleasant looking man that had just appeared.

"You owe me five hundred francs," the man said at once, as soon as he saw Grantaire.

"Yeah, thanks for the reminder, but I haven't forgotten."

The man scolded. "I said that you had to pay me at once!"

"And I will," Grantaire said, innocently throwing his hands into the air. "Come on, monsieur, I just woke up from having a bullet cut out of my side. Give a man a chance."

The man narrowed his eyes at Grantaire. "Do you really have that much money?" he asked threateningly. "Are you really going to pay me as soon as you leave this place?"

"Yes, monsieur, I thought we've established this. You promised to turn me in to the police if I did not pay you right away." Grantaire paused for a moment, and looked around the room. "Although…" he added, and he looked back at the man, a roughish and clever gleam in his eyes, "it seems to me that I might not be the only one whose got something to hide from the police."

The man suddenly straightened up, astounded and caught off guard. "I don't know what you mean by that!" he snapped.

Grantaire looked at the man knowingly. "Prostitution is illegal. And it is also illegal if you're a prostitute's customer."

The man snorted. "That is no concern of mine. I've never been here myself until I brought you here. So, it doesn't apply to me in any way." After a moment, he added, "And even if it did, the police are going to be far more interested in the man who tried to overthrow the government."

Grantaire nodded. "I know. But the police aren't going to hear anything about either one of those crimes because I have money and I'm going to pay you as soon as I can." Grantaire was not trying to start a fight. Because this man was right. If the police got involved with this, he would be in _way_ more trouble than this man. He just wanted to show this man that he was not entirely powerless. That he was not stupid. That there were some things that he knew, too.

This seemed to settle the man down a bit. He straightened his coat, straightened his posture, and raised his head high, trying to look superior—which wasn't too hard, compared to Grantaire, who was slouched carelessly on the bed, his hair wild on top his head, no shirt covering his body, and a bottle of wine in his hand. But Grantaire, not in the slightest bit self-conscious, did not seem to notice.

"You will be able to pay me, then?"

"Yes… Like I've already said… More than once."

The man narrowed his eyes. He lowered his voice and hissed, "I've been to your home on the Rue Saint-Hyacinthe. The filthy place is a swine's sty. It is certainly not worth five hundred francs."

Grantaire nodded. "I know. The money's not at my house."

He looked darkly at Grantaire. "You really do have this money, though? You're not just going to take off and disappear as soon as you leave this place?"

Grantaire shook his head. "I wouldn't be able to run fast enough in my condition. …Oh, and by the way, breaking and entering is illegal, too."

The man cringed. "The door was unlocked."

Grantaire shrugged. "That's still illegal."

The man's glare darkened. "Don't try me! I can have you thrown behind bars in a heartbeat!"

"Yes, but then you'll never get your money."

The man, his face getting redder as he got angrier, turned away, fuming. "Fine!" he cried out in frustration. "I want the money as soon as you leave this place."

"Alright, fine. Where do you want me to meet you?"

The man thought for a moment. "Let's make this easy. The café."

"Good. Make it simple." Grantaire nodded his approval, leaned back against the pillows, and took another drink from his bottle.

"When will you be able to leave this place?" the man asked Grantaire.

"Not until he gets completely better."

Startled, Grantaire and the man both turned as the woman that had been sitting with Grantaire, Adéle the other man had addressed her, came through the door. Grantaire looked at her, fearing that she had overheard him talking to the man. After a moment, his fears were confirmed. He did not know how much she had heard, but he could tell by the thoughtful expression on her face that she had heard something important.

"Adéle, what do you think you're doing in here!" the man thundered. A moment later, a regretful look passed over his face and it obvious that he wished that he could take back the words he had just spoken.

Grantaire looked at the man, a knowing look on his face, as if to say, _"Really, you've never been here before, but you know the woman's name? Right." _The man caught his eye, glared at him, and quickly looked away.

The woman, however, did not even acknowledge that she heard the man at all. "What's this I hear about being thrown behind bars?" the woman asked as she crossed the room and sat down on the side of the bed beside Grantaire. She looked into his eyes, her face stern and serious.

Grantaire immediately smiled at her. "Nothing, darling," he said naturally (this was not the first time he had to sweet-talk with a woman to warm her up to him. In fact, he was quite accustomed to it.) As soon as he said, "darling" the girl blushed and smiled.

Turning to the man, who stood as if paralyzed in the middle of the room, Grantaire continued, "We were just saying what would happen if any of the revolutionaries survived the battle."

The man gave a curt nod. "Yes, but none of them survived the battle, so it really doesn't matter anyway."

The girl suddenly looked surprised. She turned her head to look at the man and asked, "But I thought you said that—"

The man's expression suddenly became so harsh, so terrible, so dangerous that the woman suddenly stopped speaking in the middle of her words. She looked suddenly away from the man and stared down at the bed sheets, her face red and scared. "Oh… um… never mind. That's silly." She let out what was clearly a forced giggle. "I was just mistaken…" After a moment, she glanced up to look at Grantaire. He was frowning at her.

Grantaire, despite what many people, include Enjolras, thought of him, was a very clever man. He was smart, crafty, witty, and devious. He had a way with words, a way of figuring things out, a way of getting people to do what he wanted. He had not missed a detail of what had just happened, and the wheels in his head began to turn.

Grantaire turned to address the man. "I need one night. I'll meet you at noon tomorrow."

Without saying a word, the man gave a quick nod and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Grantaire watched him leave. Then, he turned to the girl beside him. A gentle smile spread across his lips. The same smile that had captivated the hearts of so many women… She smiled back at him. "What did he say your name was? Adéle?" Grantaire asked softly.

"Yes," she answered quietly.

Grantaire gazed at her as if he was in a trance. "You're beautiful."

Her cheeks went pink and she looked away. Looking back up at Grantaire, he said softly, "You are very handsome."

"Because you saw me naked?"

Adéle's face went bright red. She laughed nervously. "That's not what I meant…"

Grantaire smiled. "I didn't know a drunkard could be handsome."

"Who said that to you?!" she cried out on protest.

"So many people I've lost track."

"Well, they're all wrong."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

Grantaire smiled and his sky blue eyes shown with such a warm light, that one look at those beautiful, enchanting, eyes and a woman had lost her heart.

Very slightly, Grantaire could feel the space between this woman's body and his own lessening. He reached up to gently brush a piece of her long red hair behind her ear. At the light touch of his fingers against her cheek, Adéle blushed again.

"Do you know that man?" Grantaire ventured to ask her, motioning to the door where the man had exited moments before.

"Um…" she looked over at the door, as if to make sure the man was gone. "I… he's the one who brought you here," she answered a little hesitantly. But they both knew that when the man brought Grantaire to these women's care, it was not their first meeting.

So moving on, as if she had answer "yes" instead, Grantaire said, "Is he mean to you?"

"Um…" she trailed off and did not answer.

"Because if he is, let me know and I'll take care of him for you."

She smiled at Grantaire, but without saying anything.

"I don't like him," Grantaire went on. "I mean, aside form the fact that he saved my life, I really don't care for the man."

She giggled. "Well…" she began a little reluctantly. "He's not exactly my type, either."

Grantaire smiled. "What kind of man is your type, if I may ask you, madam?"

When Grantaire called her "madam," her face lit up, as if someone had just lit a gentle candle within her soul. This girl was like Grantaire. She got no respect from society.

She smiled and leaned in so that she was closer to him. She did not answer his question, but just the look on her face was more than enough of an answer. "Now, that man is not all bad," she said, with a smile. "He said your life. If it had not been for him, you would not be here with me…"

Grantaire shook his head. "That man did not save my life." He looked her straight in the eye, and his blue eyes were like a drug, intoxicating her. "_You_ save my life."

If this woman had any loose hold left on her heart, it just slipped out from her grasp and it was gone, locked behind the prison bars. And Grantaire held the key.

The girl dropped her eyes away from Grantaire. "It's silly…" she said quietly. She looked back up at him. "…that I don't even know your name."

"Grantaire."

"Grantaire…" she repeated, as if the name was the most beautiful word she had ever heard.

Grantaire knew that he had her. He saw his opportunity and jumped on it. "Come 'ere." Grantaire gently took the girl's chin in his hand, brought her face to his, and softly kissed her lips. She only hesitated a moment before she started kissing him back.

When they finally broke away, the girl's eyes opened and the only thing she saw was those clear blue eyes, looking straight back into hers. She was done.

The smell of alcohol was so strong that if anyone walked into the room, they might have gone straight back out, gagging on the odor. The room was dark, lit only by the dim light of the few candles that flickered, casting a dim red glow through out the room. The red drapes of the canopy hung around the bed, concealing the people in it form view.

Grantaire lay on his back, sinking down into the blankets around him. The woman, Adéle, was lying in the bed beside, snuggled up against his body, her head resting on his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest. His arm was draped around her shoulders, and his fingers gently stroking her long curtain of hair.

She was drunk. For the last several hours, she and Grantaire had been drinking out of the same bottle, getting closer one another, being freer with what they told one another. Everything the girl said came straight from her heart. To her it was all real. About one tenth of the things Grantaire said were real.

He had been drinking with her the whole time, but his body was so adapted to alcohol, that he would have had to drain several bottles before the wine really started going to his brain. It had been a long and painful—very painful—process of getting to the point where they were at now. The girl's body was pressed tightly against his and every time either of them moved, terrible pain shot through his body, and he had to do his best to try to hide it. But now, the worst was over and they both lay still upon the bed. Grantaire stared up at the red canopy that hung over the bed, wondering if he would be able to walk when he got out of it.

The girl and Grantaire had exchanged a lot of information, answered a lot of questions in the time they had spent together. But there was still one question that Grantaire had not heard the answer of. He asked once a few hours ago, and the girl said that she could not tell him. He had not dared to ask again, because he knew how important it was to ask at just the right time. If this girl guessed the truth, then his game would be up and all would be lost. But he thought now that she so drunk and so madly in love with him that she would tell him.

"Adéle…" Grantaire whispered.

Not lifting her head off his shoulder, she raised her eyes to look up at him. "Grantaire?"

He started off by showing her that deadly smile and leaning down to kiss her. When they broke apart, Adéle looked up at him with sad eyes, which were red and watery from the amount of alcohol she had consumed. "Are you sure you have to go tomorrow? You can always stay…"

Grantaire made a face that looked as if he was truly heartbroken. "Darling, you know I would if I could… but I can't…"

"Why not?" she whispered.

"You know why. Because I have to go to England to take care of my mother…" This was a story that Grantaire had invented some time ago.

Adéle sighed. "But I love you…"

"As do I," Grantaire cooed. Their lips touching, he whispered, "…but I have to go…"

"No, you don't…"

"I do."

Adéle rolled over in the bed so that she was on her stomach, her face hovering just above Grantaire's. "When will you be back?"

Grantaire hesitated a moment before he answered, as if he were in deep thought. "I don't know…" he whispered, his voice coming out thin and weak, as if it truly pained him to speak these words. "Maybe… never…" Grantaire had already told her this multiple times, but he could see her heart breaking all over again every time he spoke these words. He felt bad doing it… but he had to.

She collapsed back down into the bed, letting her head rest over his heart. He held her tightly for a long time. Neither of them said anything. Grantaire felt his chance coming. This was it… At last he spoke. "Adéle…?"

"Yes?" she answered without raising her head.

"You remember when that man was yelling at you earlier…?"

She nodded.

"What was it that he did not want you to tell me?"

Grantaire felt her body tense. She was silent for a long moment. Grantaire waited with hopeful anticipation. Then finally, she whispered. "I can't tell you…"

"Oh come on, darling, you know you can tell me anything…"

"I know I can…" she said quietly back. "But I… I don't know…"

"Was it something about someone surviving the revolution? That there was a survivor?"

Now, she sounded upset. "Why does it matter?"

"It doesn't. Nothing matters now except for me and you… but, darling, please, just tell me… for me…"

She did not answer for a moment. At last, Grantaire heard her voice whisper, "Yes, someone survived."

Grantaire felt his heart leap with excitement. Trying not to sound too anxious, he asked, "Who was it? Did he give you a name?"

She didn't answer for so long that Grantaire was afraid that she had fallen asleep… or passed out. Then, she spoke, "Yes, I know the name, but I'm not supposed to tell anyone…"

Grantaire could feel his heart racing; he hoped that the girl would not notice, since her head was resting right on his chest. If anyone sober was in the room, they might have been able to hear his heart pounding from meters away, but Grantaire just had to trust that the wine had dulled her senses enough so that she would not notice.

He gently touched her head with one hand and lifted her face so she had no choice but to look him straight in the eye. "Come on, you know I love you. You know you can trust me. You know you could tell anything and I would still love you forever…"

She smiled softly. "I love you."

"And I love you." Adéle looked away, smiling. Grantaire could tell she was about to yield. He leaned down so that his forehead was pressed against hers, their faces just inches apart, their lips nearly touching. "Just tell me the name…"

Adéle looked into those blue eyes and her heart gave way. She leaned in to gently kiss Grantaire's lips, right on the cut from when Javert had thrown him into the floor of the café. Then, she whispered the name.

"Marius Pontmercy."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter VII

Marius Pontmercy was alive. He did not know how, but somehow, he was alive.

The last thing he could remember, he was shot in the battle. He remembered the searing pain in his shoulder. He could remember falling to the ground, hearing voices call out his name. He thought one of them might have belonged to Enjolras. The last thing he could remember, right as his vision blacked out and he fell into unconsciousness, a pair of strong hands seizing him and taking him, and he had thought that he was being taken captive by the French army.

But the next morning, he had woken up in a warm bed in his grandfather's mansion. No one knew much of how he had gotten there, who had taken him from the battle, how he had gotten past the army… All they knew was that a man, a man that nobody knew or recognized, had shown up at his grandfather's front porch during some late hour of the night. Covered from head to toe in filth and grime, as if he had just emerged for the darkest, muddiest depths of a swamp, panting and out of breath, Marius's bleeding and unconscious body swung over his shoulder.

At once, Marius's grandfather had taken Marius in, roused every servant in the house, called the doctor, and clung desperately to Marius's hand, as if so long as he held on, Marius would not be able to slip away from him. By the time all of this had happened, everyone had forgotten all about the man who had delivered Marius from the battle. But when the doctor declared that Marius would not die and everyone began to rejoiced, they suddenly all wanted to thank, to praise, to glorify that man who had brought him to them. But the man was gone.

Now, Marius was alive. He, alone, was alive. All his friends were dead.

Marius felt that he was trapped. He was living in a world where there was no sun to rise in the morning. No moon to light the night. There were no birds to sing in the trees. There were no flowers to grow in the gardens. There was nothing that was beautiful. There was no hope, no joy, no love… There was nothing. Just nothing. Marius looked at the world around him but he saw none of it. Instead, he saw a dark, black void that would never see light again.

"Why am I still here?"Marius whispered aloud as he stared out the window of the bedroom in his grandfather's mansion. The streets of Paris were grey.

It was not fair. That he alone had survived and all his friends had been killed. It was not fair. What was God thinking? This was the question that was continently coming back into his mind. _"His plans are greater than ours…_" That was always the reply that Marius heard in his mind. So, he tried to have faith. But faith in what? His friends were dead, and he was still alive. It wasn't fair. If God was just, Marius would have died with them.

"Marius…"

Marius looked over his shoulder and saw his grandfather standing in the doorway of his room, wearing a concerned expression on his face.

"Marius are you… are you alright?"

Marius did not answer. He turned to look back out the window. He heard his grandfather making his way across the room. A moment later, he appeared at Marius's side and gently rested his hand on his grandson's shoulder.

"Marius…" his grandfather began quietly. "I know what you're going through…"

_No you don't, _Marius thought. _No one understands. _

"…I know that nothing will ever be able to take the place of your friends… but you can't just give up, like this."

_Why? What am I giving up on? What do I have left? Nothing. _

"Marius, things will get better."

_How do you know that?_

"Things will… _change_. Become happy again…"

_No, they won't._

"It will all come in time… You just have to have faith…"

_Faith in what? In God? Well, I've been asking Him for help, but he hasn't seemed to have heard me…_

"Marius, are you listening to me?" his grandfather asked, seeing that Marius had not responded to anything that he had said.

Marius actually had been listening to him. He heard it with his ears, but nothing his grandfather said was strong enough to break through the cold stone barrier that now enveloped Marius's heart. So his words meant nothing to him.

Marius had been this way for the last three days. He had remained in his room, not speaking to anyone, not wishing to see anyone. The girl who Marius loved, Cosette, had come to his grandfather's house with her father several times, and they had asked if they could visit Marius. But every time, after his grandfather had gone to tell Marius that Cosette wanted to see him, he told him to turn her away. That he did not want to see anyone.

The doctor said that this condition would pass. His grandfather had faith that it would pass. Marius had lost all hope and knew that he was doomed to live in this world of loneliness, sorrow, grief, and guilt for the rest of his life.

"Marius…" his grandfather said, moving closer to his grandson. "Marius, look at me…"

Marius did not look.

"Marius, please… Marius, I… I love you, Marius…"

Marius had not heard his grandfather say these words since before he had been eight years old, the age when his grandfather told him that it was time that he start behaving like a man. So, at any other time, these words would have made Marius's heart flood with pity and swell with compassion. But now, Marius felt nothing.

"Marius, please… Just… just try to keep… to keep living…" Marius did not respond. "I'm sorry if I've done anything to make you angry. I promise I'll try to be a better grandfather…"

Marius did not say anything.

"Marius, please…" the old man's voice cracked with the bitterness of despair. For the first time since his youth, tears began to form in his eyes, and he tried not to show that he was getting choked up. "Marius… Say something… Talk to me…"

But Marius did not walk to talk. He had nothing to say. So he said nothing.

The old man let out a heavy sigh and got up to leave. Marius heard his foot steps, slow and sad, hitting the floor as he crossed the room. He heard the door close.

Marius raised his eyes to look into the sky. It was hidden by the thick blanket of grey clouds, which hung ominously low as the loomed over the earth. There was no sun. Marius gazed up at the grey sky. He wondered if his friends were in a place like that. A gloomy, grey void with no hope, and with no tomorrow. Or, he wondered if they were, maybe, in a better place. He hoped they were. But, either way, he did not care if it was heaven or hell, he wished that he could be wherever they were…

Without being fully aware of it himself, Marius got to his feet and slowly walked across the room, exited through the door, went down the hallway, and started down the steep staircase, to the lower level of the mansion.

Marius's grandfather, who had gone downstairs, heard someone slowly coming down the steps and turned to see who it was. "Marius!" he cried out, a sudden flame of hope bursting within his old heart. This was the first time Marius had left his room since he had woken up. "Marius, you're up… Wonderful! Is there anything I can get for you? Anything at all? Would you like some tea? Or some food? Good heavens, you haven't eaten in three days!"

Marius, who had not responded to anything that his grandfather had said to him, reached the bottom of the stairs and, not even making contact with his grandfather's eyes, said aloud, "I'm going out."

"Out?" his grandfather repeated. Marius was not supposed to leave the house. The doctor had made it clear that he was to stay home for at least two weeks. Any people he wanted to see were to come to him. But Marius had rejected all his visitors. He did not want to see them. This was the first time that Marius had shown any desire to leave his room, or to connect with the world, or to start_ living_ again. His grandfather was not going to stop him. "Out where? Do you want me to call a carriage? Can I come with you? I could have Cosette come over and the two of you could go together…"

Marius shook his head. "I want to go alone."

"Are you sure? Where are you going?"

Marius did not answer. He was not sure himself. He just wanted to get out. He could not stay in this place any longer…

Marius grabbed his coat and began to awkwardly try to get it over his wounded shoulder. At once, his grandfather rushed to his side and helped him put it on. Marius did not bother to thank him. He grabbed his hat, using his one good arm to put it sloppily on his head, and then turned to the door to leave.

"Marius, be careful," his grandfather said, a note of despair in his voice. He felt that he was loosing his grandson all over again… "Make sure you come home…" His voice faded.

When the old man first began to speak, he planned on saying, "Make sure you come home before dark." But he did not care if Marius came home before dark. He did not care about anything anymore. He just wanted his grandson to come back to him. He just wanted him to come home. He did not care if it took days, weeks, years… He wished it would happen soon, but anytime at all would be enough. He just wanted Marius to come home…

Marius set out, walking down the streets as if in a trance, complete unaware of the world around him. He watched his feet as he walked. He had no idea where he was going. He had walked these streets so many times that his legs carried him down them, without his mind even being aware of it.

Marius felt that he was dead. No, he was alive. His friends were dead and he was alive. No, that could not be right. Marius was not dead, but how could he have been alive? Whatever this was, this life that Marius had lived in the ever since the battle, was not living at all. He was not dead, but he was not living, either. Then, what was he? He was lost. A lost soul doomed to keep enduring in a cold, dark world where there was no comfort. Marius was lost. He would never be found. He would never return home…

The next thing he was aware of, Marius raised his eyes and found himself standing in the first floor of the café. For a moment he just stared, uncomprehendingly around the room. There was nothing left down here. All the furniture had been used in the barricade, all the wine had been rounded up and used to make explosives, all the people had been killed in the battle…

Marius felt as if he was trapped inside someone else's body, watching someone else live but never really living himself. The body moved, but he had no control over what it did or where it went. Without knowing where they were taking him, he watched his legs carry him across the room and up the stairs.

Maybe, it was just habit, because every time Marius entered the café, he went upstairs, to the last room in the hall, and there all of his friends would be waiting for him. He followed that same path now, vaguely aware of it in his mind. But when he walked through the door and into the room, his friends were not there to greet him.

He stopped to stand in the middle of the room.

He could see red stains on the floor, which could have only been left from the blood of his friends… He looked up, away from the floor.

The window was open and a cool breeze was softly falling through it, blowing through the room. Through the window, Marius could see the grey sky and see the street where they had built the barricade. The barricade was gone now, too. There was nothing left. It was all gone…

Marius slowly turned his eyes to look around the room. There were always five tables in this room. At these tables, his friends would gather around to talk of revolution, to conspire against the government, to discuss the raising of the barricades. At these tables, they would also sit together, talk together, play games together, make jokes together, laugh together, live together… These tables were still there, their chairs pulled loosely to the sides of them. But they all were empty. His friends were gone…

Marius stared at the place where is friends used to sit.

That table there, over by the window. That was where he, Joly, and Courfeyrac always liked to sit together. Joly. Courfeyrac. They were both great friends of his, but Courfeyrac was the first real friend he ever had. Courfeyrac had introduced him to all of the other boys. Courfeyrac had given him people that he could trust and love. But now they were all gone…

That table in the corner, in that chair against the wall; that was where Grantaire always sat. Grantaire. He would sit in that same stop ever day, a large bottle of wine in his hand, and he would, laugh, drink, gossip, drink, gamble, drink, contradict Enjolras, drink, and then, normally, he got drunk. Then, Enjolras would yell at him to put the bottle down.

Enjolras. Enjolras was always in the café, it seemed. He never smiled, he never laughed, and he certainly never drank. But there was always that look, that gleam of excitement that came into his eyes whenever he talked about revolution. The light that shown through his eyes and illuminated his face was enough to set the entire café a blaze. Enjolras was so strong, so brave, so certain. He was convinced that the people would rise, that the revolution would prevail, that there was a hope for a better tomorrow… But tomorrow never came…

Marius was very close with both Grantaire and Enjolras. Grantaire, skeptical, playful, crafty, devious, mischievous, carefree, clever, and more concerned with enjoying life than the revolution. Enjolras, serious, honest, noble, bold, brave, strong willed, passionate, and with a heart the beat for one thing alone: the Republic. And Marius, who fell between them.

Marius stared, feeling as if he were in a dream, at the empty chairs at empty tables. He felt so cold.

"_Marius, you're late!"_

Marius jumped and looked over his shoulder, certain that he had heard Enjolras's voice. No one was there. He looked quickly around the café, trying to find him. But he was alone. Yes, he was alone… He looked away and stared across the empty room.

"_Marius, what do you think you're doing?"_

Marius jumped again and, at once, his head was stretched out on his neck, looking frantically around the café, like a frightened deer that has just perceived the faint sound of the hunter. He had heard another voice, he was sure of it. This time it belonged to Grantaire. But there was no one in this café except for him. Grantaire, Enjolras. They were both dead. They were all dead.

"_Marius, why haven't you come? Why have you left us here? Why have you abandoned us?"_

As Marius immediately turned around, he thought, for just a moment, he caught a glimpse of Courfeyrac face peering in at him through the window. But now he was gone.

At once, an icy chill fell over his body, running up his spin, freezing his blood. He felt for certain that his dead friends were all around him. That their ghosts, invisible, sat all around him in these empty chairs, haunting him. Were they mad at him for living? Because they had all died and he had survived?

Marius was mad at himself. Guilt was the heavy burden weighing down on his mind, heart, and soul. But now, he was terrified.

"Oh, my friends…" Marius whispered into the empty room, certain that, although he could not see them, that they were there, looming around him. "Forgive me…"

There was no response. His friends would not forgive him.

Marius stared across the room, looking at its emptiness. It seemed to him that he could feel the souls of his dead friends, lingering around him, watching him with hateful, cold eyes. He felt so alone.

His friends were dead. They were gone. They would never come back…

Marius was trapped in this world of the living. This world where he was doomed to remain, tormented by the phantom faces that peered at him through the windows, the phantom shadows that crawled across the floors… His friends were gone… They would never come back…

"Oh, God…" Marius's faint voice cried out into the empty room. He felt his legs give out from under him and he collapsed into one of the chairs, his arms falling onto the tables, and his head bowing down on top of them. "God, help me…" Marius whispered aloud. "I can't do this… I can't…"

It was as if a dam inside of Marius's soul, the stone wall that held back all emotion, suddenly burst and tears were streaming down his face. He felt his body shaking, heard quiet sobs escaping his lips, as he sat at the table, his head presses against its wooden top, and he wept.

"Lord, help me, please… I don't want to be here. I don't want to be alive. I want to be with my friends. Please… _please,_ just let me go to them…" Marius weakly lifted his head and cast his eyes up to look out the window into the grey sky. "Jesus, why did you let me live?" Marius demanded of the grey clouds that loomed so darkly overhead. "Why?! It's not fair! I don't want to be alive. Why couldn't you have just let me die with my friends? I don't want to be here. I want to be with my friends…"

Then, Marius's head fell to the table and he lost total control over himself. He cried. Bitterly. Hopelessly. Terribly. For how long he did not know. His just remained there, limply crumpled against the table, crying his eyes out, tears flooding his eyes, streaming down his face, dripping onto the wooden table. He kept crying for hours straight, and when it seemed that there were no tears left in his eyes to spill out, he kept crying…

"Marius?"

Marius heard a voice ask from behind him. He did not bother to raise his head. He knew that it was only his imagination. That his friends were dead. That the voices he heard in his head were not real.

"Marius, are you alright?"

_Don't look,_ Marius told himself. _There is no one there. They're not real. You're only imagining them. They're not real. My friends are dead… _Marius closed his eyes and buried his face in his arms, as if he could block out the voices of the ghost that haunted him.

"Marius…"

Marius felt someone lightly touch his shoulder. His touch felt real… Marius lifted his head. At once, he felt a thousand emotions flow into him. Confusion, doubt, disbelief. But even more strongly, he felt overwhelming joy, happiness, and the love of friendship… All at once, the bitter ice in Marius's body melted, the stone barrier that encased his heart crumpled, and the gentle flame of the candle of life rekindling in his soul.

"GRANTAIRE!"

Marius saw him standing there, right beside him, close enough to touch. He looked real. His hand had felt real when he touched Marius's shoulder…

Marius stared at him, stuttering in shock, expecting that, at any moment, Grantaire would disappear and be gone. That he was only imagining this. That he was about wake up and realize that it was all in his head. But Grantaire did not disappear.

"Marius, are you alright?" Grantaire's face took an expression of concern. "You don't—"

Before he could finish speaking, he was cut off as Marius threw himself at Grantaire, rapping his arms around him to clutch him as tightly as he could, fearing that if he let go, Grantaire might slip away from him and be gone. Marius felt his body, clutched in his embrace. It felt warm. Alive. Real.

Grantaire, momentarily startled, only hesitated a moment before he gently returned the hug. "Marius, are you alright?" Marius heard Grantaire repeat. "I went to your grandfather's house but he said that you'd been gone for hours. I went out looking for you…"

Marius abruptly pulled away from Grantaire to look into his face, but did not dare to let go of him, so he continued to cling to his arms as he looked into his eyes. It was Grantaire. There was no denying it. Everything down to the stray curl of hair that always fell in his face was the same. Grantaire had a cut on his lower lip, but other than that, he seemed to be unharmed. He was alive.

"I thought… I thought you were dead!" Marius cried out. Tears were freely running down his face. But now, they were tears of happiness.

"Well, for a minuet there, so did I, but don't worry, I'm not…"

Marius, overcome with emotion, laughed as cried. Then, he couldn't help but hug Grantaire again. Not until this moment was Marius fully convinced that he was not dreaming. Grantaire was alive. He did not know how, but somehow…

Marius finally released him and took a small step backward. He looked into Grantaire's eyes, his face becoming sad. "We're the only one's left," Marius said quietly.

"What?" Grantaire asked, not quite sure what Marius meant.

"We're the only ones left," he repeated. "All the others were killed. Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Joly, Combeferre, little Gavroche… all of them. They all died. We're the only ones left…"

Grantaire shook his head, his face becoming grave and serious. "No we're not."

Marius felt a ray of hope coming into his heart and his face brightened. "What do you mean?" he asked, excitement growing within him.

"Enjolras is alive."

"Really?!" Marius cried out, delight and joy bursting in his heart. "Enjolras?! Is he here? Where is he?" Marius looked anxiously around the room, expecting Enjolras to walk through the door at any time, his handsome face in its usual serious expression, his rippling blonde hair done perfectly upon his head, his red coat neat and straight around his shoulders, the red, white, and blue badge of the revolution still fastened his jacket.

But Enjolras did not appear.

Marius turned his eyes back to Grantaire. As soon as he saw his face, the light in Marius's heart began to fade and it was replaced by a cold feeling of dread in his stomach.

Grantaire's face was dark, hard, cold. Marius had never seen Grantaire look like this before. Marius opened his lips. His voice careful and cautious, Marius quietly repeated, "Where is Enjolras, Grantaire…?"

Grantaire dropped his eyes away from Marius to look at the floor, as if he could not bear to look at him as he delivered a truth so pain. Grantaire opened his lips and spoke through clenched teeth.

"They took him."


	8. Chapter VIII

Chapter VIII

Enjolras remained still, leaning against the cold pole that he was tied to, his hands bound behind his back, his head hanging limply to rest against his shoulder. His were eyes closed. Upon close examination, it could be seen that his chest was softly rising and falling as he drew in shallow breaths. The right side of his face, starting at his jaw and spreading across entire his cheek, was bruised, and just below his cheekbone, there was a deep gash. Dried blood from this wound was like red teardrops stained to his face. His entire right side, from his chest to his waist, was a sickening black and red color, swelling with liquid and internal bleeding. His back and the backside of his arms were ripped apart. The wounds were now, in some places, starting to scab over, trying to heal. He was asleep.

Enjolras weakly opened his eyes. His throat was so dry that it had swollen and he felt like there was a huge bulge stuck in his throat. His lips were so chapped that when he tried to separate them, they cracked and started too bleed. His tongue and mouth were and dry, too. He tried to swallow and he felt like he was gagging on desert sand. He was so thirsty. There was only one thing possession his mind. Water.

Enjolras had drunk water at the barricade but he had lost anything that he consumed when he threw up every thing in his digestive track. Then, he had lost so much blood from being beaten. Now, he was lightheaded, dehydrated, and weak.

He was also hungry. He was starving. Had had not eaten since the morning of the day they built the barricades. That was four days ago. He had been a captive of Javert for three days. For the last two days, Enjolras had remained tied to this pole in this dark, stone prison, and had not seen another living soul. He was left there to suffer, parched, starving, and in agonizing pain.

With much effort, Enjolras lifted his head. The stone walls around him were blurry and swam in and out of focus. His head hurt. His entire body throbbed with pain. For the last three days, ever since he had awaken from being beaten, he had tried to move as little as possible because even the slightest shift of his muscles sent pain so terrible coursing through his body that it made his vision darken and his head pound to the point that he thought he would pass out. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, letting rest against the pole behind him.

He was going to die. He did not know how long it would take, but it was only a matter of time. He would only last a few more weeks without food. He wasn't sure he would last another day without water. Enjolras could feel the strength draining from his body. The end was coming. He hoped it to come sooner than later, because waiting for death was agony.

_Red, the blood of angry men… _Enjolras deliriously thought as he leaned against the pole, waiting to die. He could feel hot blood running down his naked back. _Black, the dark of ages past… Red, a world about to dawn… Black, the night that ends at last… _

The loud boom of two solid objects slamming into each other informed Enjolras that someone had just opened the heavy door to his prison. He opened his eyes. It was Javert. He stood, like a broad statue, in the doorway, his down cast eyes staring at Enjolras, piercing him, penetrating him.

At once, Enjolras, despite the terrible pain that he had to endure whenever he moved, drew his leg tightly against his body to hide himself from Javert's unyielding gaze. He raised his head, sat up as straight as his throbbing body would allow, and he glared at Javert, trying to look strong. Just from these simple motions, the room around Enjolras darkened and he had to ask God to keep him from passing out.

Enjolras considered snapping something hostile at Javert, but when he slightly move his lips to form a word, he felt his throat close up and he knew he would be unable to speak if he tried. To spare himself any further humiliation, he said nothing.

Javert slowly started across the room approaching Enjolras. Enjolras felt his muscles tense uncomfortably, but he continued to look Javert straight in the eye. Out of the corner of his vision, he noticed that Javert had something in his hand. He glanced down at it. As soon as he realized what it was, Enjolras felt his mouth go even dyer.

Javert carried a large clear flask. Inside of it was water.

It was a moment before Enjolras realized how desperately he was staring at the water. He tried to compose himself and not to look too pathetic. He tore his eyes away from the water and looked back at Javert, who then took the top off of the flask and approached Enjolras. Enjolras did not take his eyes off of him.

Javert came up to strand right by Enjolras's side. Enjolras looked up into his cold eyes. He watched in disbelief as Javert slowly lowered the flask so that Enjolras could drink. Enjolras wanted it so bad. He was desperate for water. Without thinking, he was about open his parched mouth to drain the entire flask…

Then, suddenly, he felt as if he were Adam and Eve after they had eaten the fruit from the Tree of Knowing Good and Evil and they realized that they were naked. Enjolras realized that he was about to drink, helpless, pathetic, like a dog eating from the hand of his master, from the hand of Javert. He would not lower himself to that level. He would not accept anything form Javert. It took him all the strength, will, and power left in him. Enjolras turned his head away, refusing the water.

This act of defiance ignited a burst of anger within Javert. Normally, if a prisoner had done this, he would have let him go without any water, let him suffer until he gave in or died of thirst. But Javert knew that Enjolras, this stubborn, fool of a schoolboy, would not give in. That he really _would_ let himself die, instead. Maybe, he even wanted to die. But he would be of no use to Javert if he was dead.

A moment later, Enjolras felt Javert's hand brutally seize his face, intentionally grabbing the bruised spot on his jaw, causing it to throb. Javert yanked Enjolras's head around so he had to choice but to look into Javert's harsh face, and he forced the mouth of the flask into Enjolras's lips.

Enjolras tried to pull away. But he was too weak, and Javert was too strong. The cold water poured down his throat and for a moment, he gagged on it, accidentally drawling some of it into his lungs and coughing some of it back up his throat. Javert, not even acknowledging Enjolras, continued to tip the water down his throat. Enjolras had no choice but to swallow it or choke on it.

He drank it. It tasted so good. The cool water running down his dehydrated throat was like the first rain that falls and revives a dying land after a long season of drought. He drank it all. He emptied the entire flask. Then he wanted more.

Javert released Enjolras and backed away from him. As soon as Javert loosened his grip on him, Enjolras yanked his head away and coughed up the few mouthfuls of water that had entered his lungs. He raised his eyes to look up at Javert. Javert was watching him with those terrible, searching eyes. Enjolras straitened is back, held his head high, and tried not to show how uncomfortable he was under Javert's gaze. He glared at Javert.

Javert looked back at him, not saying anything, but inspecting him in a way that made Enjolras want to hide his face and disappear from sight. But he forced himself to continue to look Javert in the eye.

Javert spoke. "Let's pick up where we left off. Where is 24601?"

"I already told you I don't know." His voice came out horse and weak. He quietly cleared his throat, and told himself to make sure that he sounded very strong and confident the next time he spoke.

"What are the names of all your fellow revolutionaries?"

Enjolras snarled, as brutally as he could manage, "I will never tell you!"

"Have it your way…" Javert replied darkly. By his voice, one would have thought that he truly could not have cared less. Perhaps, he could not. Then, without taking his eyes off Enjolras, he called loudly, "4462!"

The same man, prisoner number 4461, who had beaten Enjolras the day he was captured by Javert, must have been waiting just out side the door, because as soon as Javert called on him, he entered the room, his eyes down cast to look at the ground, the beating rod in his hand.

Enjolras felt his stomach begin to twist into knots. _Oh, God… not this again… _

At Javert's signal, 4461 approved Enjolras and began to unwind the cords around his wrists. As soon as they were off, as if this was not happening fast enough, Javert abruptly came at Enjolras and, with one hand, seized him by his shoulder, and yanked him to his feet.

His raw back slammed into the metal pole behind him, and Enjolras had to stop himself from crying out in pain. By the time the swirling in Enjolras's head had cleared, prisoner 4461 had bound him to the pole again, in the same position as the last time he beat him.

Javert stood only a step in front of Enjolras, close enough to reach out and strike him, if he wanted to. Enjolras raised his eyes to look into Javert's.

"4461, you may begin."

Enjolras did not take his eyes of Javert's as the lash began to fall upon his back. The old wounds on his back, that had just begun to heal, were ripped back open and fresh blood burst out of them. Enjolras felt like something had just ripped the flesh clean off his back. Pain hit him like an iron hammer and he choked on it. 4461 one drove the rod into Enjolras's back again.

When an object strikes the surface of a still pound and makes contact with the water, it causes the water to burst up in a splash, exploding out in all directions, sending droplets flying through the air so that they rain down upon anything within several meters of the place where the water had been struck. This same thing happened now. The rod struck the pond. The pound was Enjolras's back. The water was his blood.

When 4461 struck Enjolras, droplets of blood flew back at him, like the mist that sprayed on him when he worked at the galleys, when the waves from the sea broke upon the docks and burst into a thousand droplets that rained down on his face. The man's cold heart had become so hard that he felt nothing as Enjolras's blood came back to stray in his face. But when he first started this job, this despicable task of torturing people for the police, there was only one way he could bring himself to drive the lash into the flesh of his fellow convicts. He pretended, instead, that these people were not who they were, but the police that had separated his from his family…

4461 drew his arm back and, propelling it forward with all his power, which passed through his strong muscles as he moved, he threw the rod at Enjolras and it drove into his back. It sunk into his flesh like a knife, so that 4461 had to yank it out of him before the next bow. Then he hit him again. And again… And again…

This time, it only took sixteen lashed before Enjolras passed out. But Javert order 4461 to continue to beat him until he reached number twenty-eight. Then, Javert, ordered the prisoner to tie Enjolras to the front of the pole, his hands behind his back, and he left Enjolras's unconscious body to bath in his own blood.

Later that night when Enjolras awoke, he could not even breathe without having to stifle cries of pain. The room was so dark that he could see nothing but the black void around him. He sat there, leaning against the pole, staring into the darkness, listening to himself force short, cut-off breaths to pass in and out of his lungs.

The room was so cold. The metal post was cold behind him, the stone ground cold beneath him, the darkness cold around him. He was so cold…

Enjolras could see nothing but darkness. There was no hope. No future. No tomorrow. Enjolras was doomed to this terrible life of suffering forever. No. Not forever. Just for a short while. Then, it would all be over, and all this pain would go away.

He tried to look to the end. He thought of the place where his friends were now. He would be with them soon. He would walk through the door to a place that might look like the café and they would all be there, waiting for him.

But as he stared into the blackness around him, he could not see through the darkness. He felt that he was trapped inside a long dark tunnel. He knew that there was a dim light at the end of it, at the escape where the tunnel ended. But he could not see it now. A light so bright, yet he still could not see it.

It suddenly dawned on him how very far away from the light he had to still be, if he still could not see it. How much longer he would have to suffer here, hurt, cold, alone before he finally got to go to the place where his friends were… Oh, his friends! Enjolras's heart began to ach worse than all the pain that tortured his body. He missed them so much.

_I led them to their deaths… _Enjolras thought to himself as he looked hopelessly into the lonely, darkness around him. _It is all my fault that they are dead. If it were not for me, they'd all still be alive. But I've killed my friends… None of them deserved to die. But they are all dead. I, alone, deserved to die. But I am still alive… _

_God, how could you let this happen…? Why did you do this? _

No answer came forth from the darkness around him.

_It was to make me pay for what I did… _The answer came into Enjolras's head, and a terrible feeling of dread, guilt, and pain came into his soul. He was sure that God had let this happen so that Enjolras would suffer. All his friends were in a better place now, but he had been left behind to pay for his sins.

This was the only explanation Enjolras could come up with, and the pain in his heart became several times worse. _God let my friends die because of me… I have killed my friends…_

Enjolras, who never showed any emotion, any weakness, any pain, felt tears begin to surface in his eyes. He immediately began to blink hard to force the tears back into the wells of his eyes. But then, it occurred to him, and he asked himself, _Why? _What was he trying to hide? To prove? That he was strong? But he was not strong. There was no point in trying to fool himself into believing anything else. He was scared, defeated, broken. And he was alone. There was no one here to see him cry. So when the next blade of sorrow stabbed him in the heart, he let the tears spill out of his eyes and roll silently down his cheeks.

_I want my friends back… _Enjolras found himself pleading to God, like a little child crying to his father. _I would give anything to have them back. I want to be with them… _Enjolras blinked and fresh tears spilled out of his eyes and onto his cheeks. _Please, just let me die…_

But Enjolras did not die. For the next two days, he remained alone in his stone prison, with no one to talk to except for God. But Enjolras was not sure that God could hear him anymore. He was afraid that even He, who promised never to forsake His children, had left him alone. He felt so alone…

On the third day, Javert reappeared, forced Enjolras to drink more water, and then demanded him to turn in his friends. When Enjolras again refused, Javert ordered 4461 to beat him again. Enjolras woke up several hours later but was unable to stay awake for long before the pain pulled him back into unconsciousness.

Three days later, Javert came back to give Enjolras water, and this time, a stale bit of bread. That was when Enjolras realized that Javert was going to keep him alive. That he was going to starve him and deprive him of water as long as he could, but without causing Enjolras to die. That way Enjolras would have to suffer, but not to die. Not be able to escape the pain…

Every time Javert reappeared, Enjolras received another beating. Ever time, they got progressively more painful. The wounds on Enjolras's back became terrible and swelling with infection. Yellow pus and blood were constantly seeping from the lesions. Thick pockets of fluid appeared in huge welt around the bloody gashes. It became so terrible that Enjolras could not endure one lash from 4461 without falling unconscious. Then, Javert order the prisoner to strike him in different places, so he would stay awake and full feel the pain of ever strike.

Terrible, painful, bleeding gashes were ripped open all over his body. His chest, his stomach, his arms, his legs…

Enjolras's entire body trembled with pain. On the days between beatings when he sat only in his prison, he, at first, spent every moment praying to God. But when God did not seem to care, he stopped trying to talk to him. So he remained completely alone. All he could do was sit there and wait to die. He wanted to die. He wanted to escape this world where there was so much pain. He wanted to be with his friends.

Death never came.

He became so desperate that, more than once, he thought about trying to kill himself by slamming his broken body against the metal pole, which would cause his wounds to split open and blood to flow freely out of them. But then he thought of Grantaire, and he remembered his promise to die strong for him. So, for the sake of his friends, Enjolras was still alive.

But he knew it was only a matter of time before he got to be with them again. He was dying.

One night when Enjolras sat alone, his body throbbing with the pain from fresh wounds, blood running down his flesh, his head resting against the pole behind him, his eyes staring blankly into the darkness around him, a guard walking past his cell heard him speak aloud to the spirits of his dead friends:

"Don't worry, boys. I'll be home soon…"


	9. Chapter IX

Chapter IX

"What?!"

"Yup."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"How do you know?"

"I saw him with my own eyes."

"Are you sure it was Javert?"

"Unfortunately."

Marius leaned back in his chair and let his eyes drop away from Grantaire. Javert was alive. And now he had Enjolras. Marius stared down at the wooden table between them and thought.

"That means he was not killed at the barricade," Grantaire said in a low voice.

Marius nodded, but said nothing.

"Marius, do you remember at the barricade when that man came as a volunteer, and Enjolras gave him Javert so he could kill him?"

"Yes, I remember."

"We all heard the gun go off, and we thought Javert was dead. So, why is he still alive? Because the man did not really kill him. Marius, the man was a spy!" Grantaire told him, intensity growing in his voice. "The army had probably planned it all out so that we would trust him and he could set Javert free."

Marius felt his gut twist with dread. He raised his eyes to meet Grantaire's, but as he looked up Grantaire was taking another drink from his bottle.

They were now in a small pub not far from Marius's grandfather's mansion. The pub was dark, only lit by the candles that sat on each table. It was also small. Aside from Marius and Grantaire, there were only a few other people in the pub. Marius had not even known that the place existed. Most people in Paris did not. That was one of the reasons it was so empty. But Grantaire knew every place in all of Paris if it sold wine. Grantaire had chosen to take Marius to this specific pub because it was small, dark, and unknown by most people. It was the best place they could go if they wanted to discus the revolution, the events that happened after it, and how they were going to break Enjolras out of prison. There were few people there to over hear them talking, the dim lighting was like a mask that would prevent anyone from recognizing them, and because the pub was so unknown, it was very unlikely that it would encounter an unexpected visit from the police.

Marius knew what Grantaire said had to be true, yet he could not believe that it was true. Unlike Grantaire or any of the other boys, he knew who this man was. This volunteer, this _spy,_ who had come to the barricade, was Cosette's father.

Cosette's father a spy! Marius could barely think of it. If it were true, what would happen to him and Cosette? Did Cosette know about it? Maybe, she was even part of the scheme. Maybe, she had told her father that he was going to the barricade… No, that was not possible. Marius would not believe that Cosette had anything to with any of this. She did not know. But even so, if her father was a spy, if her father had set Javert free, if her father had helped to instigate the capture of Enjolras, what would happen between the two of them? Marius did not know. If Cosette had a choice between Marius or her father, who would she choose? If she could not have them both…

"Maybe, not…" Marius said at last, but even to his own ears his voice sounded doubtful and hopeless.

Grantaire let out an agitated sigh. "Come on, Marius! Then, why did he come to the barricade? Why did he let Javert go and then tell us that he had killed him? Why does Javert have Enjolras prisoner?"

Marius looked down to stare at the candle in the center of the table. He did not answer. Grantaire was right. There was no other explanation.

"Are you sure it was Javert?" Marius asked for the second time, fighting to hang on to any vague hope he had left.

"I'm sure my name is Grantaire!"

Marius nodded, but a moment later, he tried one more time, "Are you sure it could not have just been someone who looked like Javert?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Grantaire said so certainly that Marius had no doubt that his words were completely creditable. Grantaire leaned in over the table so he could lower his voice and speak quietly to Marius. "I saw him take Enjolras, Marius. He was hurting him. Just in that short time that I was there, I watched Javert hit him in his face and use a club to break his ribs."

Marius felt his stomach drop. Grantaire had not told him any of this. He did not know that Javert had hurt Enjolras.

"I tried to protect him, but I couldn't," Grantaire said quietly, and Marius could hear the defeat and shame in his voice. "Now Javert's holding him prisoner. I know Javert is torturing him... If we don't get to him soon, Javert will kill him."

Marius, suddenly terrified, found himself nodding as he looked into Grantaire's eyes, unable to look away from them.

Grantaire took a sip of his drink, looked back up at Marius, and spoke in a soft, grave voice. "Before Javert arrested Enjolras, he said that he would be publicly executed so that all of France would know what becomes of a traitor. But if they were going to execute the leader of the revolution, they would want everybody to know. All of Paris would know. So, why haven't we heard a word?"

Marius understood. Grantaire was right, again. Javert was not going to execute Enjolras, as he said he would. Therefore, he could only have been doing something worse to him.

Grantaire looked straight back into Marius's eyes. "Our only hope, now, is to find the spy from the barricade and see what he knows. He might even know how to get to Enjolras." Marius nodded again. "We have to find out who this man is and where he lives," Grantaire said. "Then we can take it from there."

"I already know who he is," Marius said. But he felt like he was listening to someone else speaking.

Grantaire's face suddenly lit up and he straightened up in his chair, excitement bursting within him. "You do?! Really?! Who is he?!"

Marius did not answer for a moment as he stared down at the table. He slowly raised his eyes to look into Grantaire's. He opened his lips and began to speak in a very soft voice, "Grantaire, do you remember before the revolution when I told you about Cosette?"

"Cosette?" Grantaire furrowed his brow, trying to remember. "Hum… it rings a bell…"

"You know, the girl that Eponine helped me find…?" When he spoke Eponine's name, a pang or sadness and guilt hit Marius in the heart. But he tried to let it go…

"Oh! That girl!" Grantaire cried out, suddenly realizing who Marius was referring to. "Yes, of course I remember her. I mean, I've never meat her, but you've talked about her enough." Marius nodded, dropping his gaze. "But what's she got to do with anything?"

"Grantaire…" Marius drew in a deep breath. "That man from the barricade… the volunteer…"

"Yes?" Grantaire nodded. He listened to Marius with careful and full concentration.

Marius let his breath out in a heavy sigh. "He is Cosette's father."

Grantaire's face suddenly dropped. He had not been expecting this at all. Grantaire slumped back in his chair. "Oh…"

Marius looked up at Grantaire, raising his eyes but not his head.

Grantaire let out a bitter laugh. He looked away and took another long drink from his bottle. After he had lowered the bottle, Grantaire looked into the candle for a moment, watching the little tongue of flame flicker up and down. At last, he raised his eyes to look at Marius.

"Marius…" he began softly. Marius met his eyes, but did not say anything. Grantaire let out a deep sigh, dropping his eyes, shaking his head. "Marius, we have to at least talk to him." He looked back at Marius. This man might be our only key to saving Enjolras. I know you love Cosette, but we can't let that stand in the way…

"I know that," Marius said, cutting Grantaire short. "I want to save Enjolras as much as you do…"

Grantaire nodded solemnly. "I know…" A moment of silence passed between them, Marius gazing into Grantaire's eyes, looking at him the way a scared little child might look to his older brother for help, comfort, and guidance.

Grantaire let out a shallow sigh, hating to have to ask Marius to turn in Cosette's father, but having no other choice. "Marius," he said quietly. His voice was gentle, companionate, but also strong. "Do you know this man's name?"

"Yes," Marius said with a small nod. "Monsieur Fauchelevant."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"Yes," Marius answered quietly.

"Take me there."

"When?"

"Now." Grantaire used his hands to push up on the table and stand up.

Marius felt his gut twist with dread and anxiety. "Now? Don't you think we should… wait? Until morning?"

Grantaire harshly shook his head. "Every second we wait, is one second longer that Enjolras will have to suffer. We can't wait. We're already running out of time."

Marius knew Grantaire was right… again.

He dropped his eyes away from Grantaire's face and got up from his chair. As his eyes fell across the dimly lit room, he thought he caught a glimpse of a dark stain on the lower left side of Grantaire's shirt. For no other reason, but it caught his eye, Marius looked at it and thought nothing of it. Maybe, just a stain from where Grantaire had spilled a drink on himself or something of the sort. Marius did not give it much thought, but it vaguely occurred to him that he had not noticed this stain on his shirt at all until now. Supposing that he had just missed it, he dismissed all of this from his mind and thought nothing of it.

"How far away is this place? If you can tell me the street it is on, I might be able to figure out a short cut," Grantaire was saying. He turned so to start heading for the door. As he moved, Marius watched the light from the candles reflect of the stain on Grantaire's clothes. It glinted as it reflected the light, as if it were glass. Marius could now see that whatever had spilled onto him was still wet. Then, just as was Grantaire turning his back to him, the candle light him at just the angle so Marius could see the bright red color of this liquid.

"We need to get there as soon as we can—"

"Grantaire!" Marius screamed so suddenly, so loudly, and in such a panicked desperate way, everyone in the entire pub, including Grantaire, jumped and turned to look at him.

"What?!" a panicked Grantaire cried, as he turned immediately back to Marius, his heart frozen in his chest. Marius's face was so pale and terrified as he stared back at him, that Grantaire abruptly looked over his shoulder, expecting to see Javert standing there, ready to arrest them both. When he saw no one, Grantaire's eyes quickly scanned the pub, trying to find what was wrong. But he saw nothing but the concerned or dumbfounded face of the costumers as they stared at him and Marius from over their mugs and bottles.

Grantaire turned abruptly back to Marius. "What!? What's wrong?!" he hurried to ask, stepping closer to Marius so that he could speak in a low voice.

After the second battle, Marius had made it out unharmed. He quickly looked around at that the survivors that still stood with him. Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Grantaire, Combeferre, Joly, little Gavroche… All of them. Marius had found the faces of all of his friends, and learned that they were still alive. Relief flooded into him like clear water flowing from a stream. Then, he turned and found Eponine sitting alone against the back of the barricade. He was surprised to see her and was going to tell her to leave, that it was not safe, but he had not at all expected that I was already too late…

Then, he had seen the dark red blood spreading across her chest.

The relief that was the water that had flowed into him suddenly froze and turned to ice. His heart dropped. His entire body went weak. He knew that it was too late. A few moments later, he sat on the ground, cradling Eponine as she died in his arms…

Marius felt that this was happening all over again. Everything was the same. In a moment, he would be struggling to hold back tears as Grantaire died in his arms… He stared at Grantaire in horror. He could not speak. He could not breathe.

"Marius, what's wrong?!" Grantaire urgently repeated. "Are you okay?"

"Grantaire, you're hurt!" Marius finally cried out. "You're bleeding! You need help—"

"Quiet, Marius! Keep you're voice down!" Grantaire hissed. He seized Marius by his arm and started to drag him towards the door.

"But you're hurt!" Marius cried out again, his voice barely any softer. Wild panic was in his eyes as he turned his head, desperate to look into Grantaire's eyes. "You need help! You need a doctor!"

"Marius, would you shut-up?!" Grantaire pushed the door to the pub open and immediately forced Marius out onto the empty streets of Paris. Night was already beginning to fall. The stars and the moon shined visible in the sky. The dying glow from the light of the fading sun just barley still lingered on the horizon, casting a faint red hue through the sky. The streets were dark and empty.

Marius, frantic and embarking on the verge of hysteria, turned immediately around, just as Grantaire was shouting, "Sorry about him, everyone; I think he's had one too many drinks!" into the pub and then slamming the door shut behind him.

"Grantaire—"

"Come on, let's get out of here before the police show up," Grantaire growled under his breath. He grabbed Marius by his arm and dragged him down a narrow dark street, turned a corner, went down a few more streets, and then emerged on a completely new road. Grantaire finally released Marius.

At once, feeling as if he were in a daze, Marius turned towards Grantaire and stared down at the blood that seep through his clothes. It was spreading the same way the blood had spread across Eponine before she died…

"Oh, God…" Marius heard himself whisper into the night and he felt his legs getting weak.

"Marius, calm down!" Grantaire ordered. His voice was firm, but it was softer now. Gentler. Comforting. "I'm fine. I'll be alright."

"You're hurt!" Marius repeated, for the third time. "You're bleeding…"

"I know!" Grantaire looked down at the blood on his shirt and carefully placed his hand upon it, but the stain was too large to hide with one hand. "I'll be fine. I just… I'll explain everything later—"

"No!" Marius said snapped, suddenly getting angry that Grantaire could even think of leaving him in the dark like this. "Tell me now."

Grantaire looked up at Marius, his eyes dark, and let out a heavy sigh. "Javert shot me."

"What?!" Marius exclaimed, and Grantaire thought he was about to go off on another panic attack.

"I'm fine now, though," he hastily added. "I've already got stitches and everything. I guess it just started bleeding again because I've been walking around so much today…" His voice trailed off.

Now, Marius had a thousand questions. "Javert shot you?!" he cried out, still in panic and shock. "Why didn't you tell me?! Are you sure you're okay?! How did you survive?! Grantaire what the hell happened to you?!"

"Don't worry about it, I'm fine now…"

"Sit down," Marius ordered. Now it was his voice that was brusque and harsh… but also desperate and afraid.

Grantaire did not try to object as Marius pulled him down to sit on a bench that sat in the front of a little inn. He would not tell Marius, but, in truth, he was in terrible pain. He had been in pain ever since he woke up. The pain got worse after he hand spent all night trying to get that prostitute talk to him. And the pain was even _worse_ now that he had been walking around Paris all day, trying to find Marius. It was not unusual for Grantaire to drink all day long, but he had been drinking an extra lot a today, because the alcohol helped to numb the pricing pain in his side.

Grantaire gently raised his hand and moved it towards his bleeding wound. As his hand was about to touch it, his hand began to tremble. He gritted his teeth and forced his hand to press itself against his wound. He tried not to wince, but the pain could still be seen on his face. Not a moment later, Grantaire could feel blood soaking through his clothing and onto his hand.

Marius had watched all of this. He sighed, moved with pity that was like the remedy that cooled off his anger, causing it to wane. "Grantaire." Grantaire looked up and found himself staring straight into Marius's eyes. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'll be alright…"

"Look at me," Marius commanded Grantaire, who had dropped his eyes to look back at his bleeding side. Grantaire obeyed. "Now, tell me what happened."

Grantaire sighed, shaking his head. "It's a long story…"

"Tell me."

So, Grantaire told him. Starting from the beginning when he walked into that room of the café and saw Enjolras standing in front of all those guns, waiting to die. He went straight through to the end, when the woman had told him that Marius Pontmercy was still alive.

Marius listened to Grantaire, the entire time, without saying a word. When Grantaire had finished, he said nothing for a long moment, but he stared into the dark streets, thinking. Finally, he raised his eyes to meet Grantaire's. Grantaire looked back at him, not saying anything.

Marius opened to lips to speak. His voice came out very soft, reasonable, and even calm sounding. "Who was the man who found you in the café?"

Grantaire shook his head. "I don't know," he said quietly. Any firmness, boldness, or anger that had previously been in his voice was now gone. "I didn't recognize him."

"I wonder how he knew that I survived…"

Grantaire shook his head. "I have no idea."

"He said he would not save you unless you gave him five hundred francs?" Marius asked, as he looked thoughtfully at Grantaire.

Grantaire nodded, rolling his eyes and groaned as he thought of the man. "Yeah, I was half dead and he wouldn't stop hounding me to give him the money…"

"Did you ever pay him?"

Grantaire nodded, his eyes wide. "I would know it if I didn't."

Marius was, at first, surprised. But then remembering that this was Grantaire he was talking to, and he was not surprise that the rascal had managed to scrounge up a way to get his hands on five hundred francs. "Where did you get that much money?"

"I had to make a stop to Enjolras's house before I paid him."

"You stole five hundred francs from Enjolras's house?" Marius raised his eyebrows.

"Due to the circumstances, I didn't think Enjolras would mind."

"How did you even get in? Enjolras keeps his door locked."

"Yeah, he's the only one of us who has got anything worth stealing… I climbed in through the back window."

Marius almost laughed. He did not, but the corners of his lips very slightly rose. "Really?" Marius questioned, almost smiling. "Good luck explaining that to Enjolras once we've broken him out of prison…"

At these words, Grantaire's face lit up, and, for a moment, he could barely feel the pain in his side.

_Once we've broken him out of prison… _ Marius believed that they would be able to save Enjolras. He was even willing to help him break into the prison break Enjolras out. Marius was willing to risk everything that he had including his future with Cosette, his freedom, and his life, to save Enjolras.

Grantaire had already made up his mind long ago that he would stop at nothing to save Enjolras. If he had to choose between his own life and Enjolras's, he would choose Enjolras in a heartbeat. But he did not think that would be enough. But now… now he had Marius on his side.

If Marius was really going to stand by his side through all of this, no matter what happened, then there was still hope. He might actually get to see Enjolras again.

Grantaire smiled. "Once we've broken him out of prison…" Grantaire repeated quietly.

Marius smiled and nodded so enthusiastically, that Grantaire had no doubt that he meant every word he said. "Yes. We will find him. We will save. No matter what the cost is, we won't stop until he is free. And I'll stay with you until it's over… I promise."

Grantaire suddenly leaned in and threw his arms around Marius to hug him. "Thank you."


	10. Chapter X

Chapter X

"Is this the place?" Grantaire asked, looking ahead at the house.

"Yes," Marius answered quietly.

Grantaire nodded and went straight to the door. At once, he raised his fist and knocked loudly upon it three times.

Marius hurried after him, down the narrow path of stone that led to the front porch. The house was very beautiful, grand, handsome, built of red brick. But most of it was hidden by all of the flowers and tall blossoming plants that covered both the front of the house and the back, which completely hidden by the garden.

It was so dark now that the only lights were the yellow light that flickered at the tops of lampposts, the gentle glow that fell through the windows of houses, the moon and the stars that shown above. Marius and Grantaire waited outside of Monsieur Fauchelevant's front door, prepared to approach him.

As Marius watched the door, he felt his insides contracting with fear. He was not ready for this. The moment had sprung up upon him like a snake jumping out at a man from its hiding place within tall grass, giving the man no time to react, to defend himself, or to do anything but stand vulnerable and defenseless as it struck him with its fangs.

Marius's mind was racing. What was going to happen? If Cosette's father was a spy… it would ruin everything that he had with her. His entire future with her would be gone. And then, what would he do? Get over her and find another girl to love? There was no chance. If this did not go well, everything he had with her would be gone…

_It doesn't matter, _Marius told himself. _If it saves Enjolras, then it will be worth it… _But that did not comfort him at all. _If _it saves Enjolras… Even after all of this, there was still the chance that it would be too late.

The door opened. A young girl appeared standing on the other side of it. She was dressed in a flowing white night gown, obviously about to go to bed. Her face was fair, fresh, and young like the dawn. Her skin was pale, but her cheeks were touches with pink, as if they were powered with roses. Her eyes, large blue crystals that shimmered with light. Her long blonde hair fell over her shoulders in beautiful, flowing locks. She was very small, dainty, and precious too look upon. She was beautiful.

As soon as Marius saw her, he felt a deep sadness, as well as a deep longing, desire, and love. He had already lost almost all of his friends. Now, he felt that he was loosing her, as well. It was Cosette.

For a moment, she looked at Grantaire, a slightly confused and startled look on her face. Then she turned her eyes and the fell upon Marius. At once, her entire being lit up and she was the brightest light to the night.

"Marius!" she cried, overflowing with joy and delight. "How are you feeling?" she immediately asked. "Are you alright? I'm so glad to see that you're doing better!"

A small sad smile formed at the corners of Marius's lips as he looked at her.

Cosette glanced back at Grantaire. "Oh, is this your friend?" she asked smiling and welcomingly, anxious to meet him. "What's your name, monsieur?" Grantaire did not smile.

"Um… Cosette?" Marius said quietly. At once, she turned to look at him, the happiness in her face shown even brighter at the sound of Marius's voice. Marius felt his heart throb. "Is your father home?"

"Yes," Cosette answered. Something in Marius's voice caught her attention, and the light in her face very slightly dimmed. She knew that something was wrong.

"We need to talk to him."

She nodded. "Alight. I'll go get him…" She sounded confused and concerned when she spoke. "Come in," she added, stepping back from the door so that they could enter. Grantaire and Marius went in, not saying a word. "I'll go find him…" Cosette said quietly. She turned and began to walk away down the candlelit hallway, but continued keep her eyes on Marius as she left, the look on her face, confused and worried, seemed to be asking him for an explanation. But he just looked back at her, his eyes longing and sad. Then she was gone. The house fell silent.

"Yeah, you're right, she is pretty…" Grantaire muttered a moment after she had disappeared. Marius glanced at him. Grantaire caught his eye and grinned, letting out a soft chuckle. Marius looked away.

More silence.

"How's your side?" Marius asked quietly, after a moment.

"Fine."

Marius gave a quick nod, which was followed by more silence. He could feel anticipation filling him. He suddenly felt that he could not stand still here any longer, and felt himself shifting his weight over his feet. "Grantaire, are you sure about this?" Marius suddenly whispered, turning abruptly to Grantaire.

"Yes," Grantaire answered, at once, his voice just above a whisper. "This is our only hope…"

"Marius?"

Marius immediately jerked back around. Cosette had reappeared. "Yes?" he asked, his voice anxious. Cosette stopped to stand at the end of the hallway. A moment later, a man appeared, walking into the hall behind Cosette.

The man was tall and strong. He looked old, yet still young, full of youth and strength. The man was wearing a loose fitting white shit, that hug low, displaying his neck and his muscular chest. His hair was in grey curls upon his head, but his face looked little older than the age of forty-five. His hazel eyes were dark and hard, like stone, yet they were also watchful and shimmered with life. The man's face was hard and stern, yet it was also warm and compassionate. That face of a man who had once known only darkness, but, in time, had learned to love.

Marius felt dread drop into his gut. It was Monsieur Fauchelevant.

The man walked past Cosette and started down the hall, approaching his visitors. "Marius?" Monsieur Fauchelevant said. His voice sounded concerned, but under that there was something else. Anxiety? Regret?

Marius felt his body stiffen. "Monsieur Fauchelevant…"

Monsieur Fauchelevant's eyes turned to look Grantaire. He said nothing, but in just the brief moment that he looked at him, he seemed to be taking him in, and thoughts could be seen flashing across his face as they passed through his head. He saw the blood on Grantaire's clothes. Smelled the alcohol on his breath. Recognized his face. He knew this man was from the barricade.

He looked back at Marius. There was clearly something on his face, some deep thought, but it could not be read. "Is there something wrong, Marius?"

Marius did not answer.

"We need to speak with you," Grantaire finally spoke.

Monsieur Fauchelevant turned his eyes to fix them on him, his eyes dark, his brows furrowed in a deep look of concentration. "Yes?"

Grantaire looked at Cosette, who was standing some distance away down the hall, in a way that told Monsieur Fauchelevant that he wanted her to go before they began their conversation.

Monsieur Fauchelevant turned to his daughter. "Cosette, go to upstairs." Cosette looked at her father, worry and fear on her face. She did not move. "Cosette, please. I'll be there as soon as we are finished." Cosette dropped her eyes to the ground, gave a small nod, and then departed up the stairs.

Marius could not take his eyes off her until she was gone. Even then, he stared at the empty stairway for a moment before he finally turned his eyes back to Monsieur Fauchelevant.

"Come this way," Monsieur Fauchelevant said as he showed Grantaire and Marius to a door off to the side of the hall. They went in and found themselves in a small room with nothing in it except for a fireplace, a cushioned chair, and a small sofa. Monsieur Fauchelevant went in and closed the door behind him. Then, he turned to face Marius and Grantaire. "So…" he began. His voice was dark and grave. "What is this all about?"

Marius, whose eyes were trained on the floor, drew in a deep breath and glanced up at Grantaire. Grantaire's arms were crossed across his chest. His face was stern, serious, dark. His eyes were fixed unyieldingly on Monsieur Fauchelevant.

Grantaire spoke first. His voice reflected his face. "Let's spare ourselves the trouble and not waist time. Javert is still alive. We know you did not kill him."

At the mention of Javert's name, Monsieur Fauchelevant's face went slightly paler.

"Why did you let him go?" Grantaire questioned him.

For a moment, he did not respond. He stared at Grantaire for a moment, saying noting, and then he turned his eyes on Marius. He straightened up, his face suddenly changed to become dark and scornful. He appeared to be in control of the situation. "Marius, is this why you wanted to talk to me?" he asked in reproach. "Well, I'm afraid that I won't be discussing this with you…"

Marius closed his eyes and shook his head, letting out a heavy sigh. "Monsieur, you do not understand." Monsieur Fauchelevant frowned at Marius. His face was annoyed and unhappy, but he said nothing and he let Marius go on. "We would not be here unless we had to be. This is very important," Marius assured him.

Monsieur Fauchelevant raised an eyebrow in a way that showed disbelief. "Is that so? Go on then."

"Javert shot me," Grantaire said bluntly before Marius could speak. The other two men both turned to look at him as he was pulling up his shirt to display the wound. Marius immediately looked away, trying to not gag. At the sight of the wound, the blood, a thousands images flashed through his head. Most of them were of the battle. Of his dead friends.

Monsieur Fauchelevant let his eyes rest on the bleeding wound for a moment. Then, he looked up at Grantaire's face. He was frowning. "Javert shot you?" he repeated, his voice even. "And why is that, because you were fighting at the barricade?"

Grantaire, lowering his shirt to hide the wound, did not answer for a moment. He glanced over at Marius. He was not sure how much he should say. He was not sure if he should mention Enjolras… yet. "Why does it matter?" Grantaire blew over the question. "First you answer our questions, and then we'll answer yours."

Monsieur Fauchelevant frowned, looking very displeased. "I do not need you to answer any questions. I do not wish to discuss this."

"Monsieur, please…" Marius joined in, a note of anguish in his voice, in contrary to Grantaire's cold, bitter tone. "Just listen to us. This is very important."

Marius sounded that if Monsieur Fauchelevant did not give him what he wanted, he would go away sad and alone, but for Grantaire, on the other hand, it seemed that if Monsieur Fauchelevant did not tell him what he wanted, that he might get physically violent and cause a fight to break out.

Monsieur Fauchelevant let out an irritable sigh. "I'm listening."

"Why did you let Javert go?" Grantaire asked harshly.

Monsieur Fauchelevant cast a dark glare upon Grantaire. "That is none of your concern."

Grantaire's glare grew darker and his eyes pierced Monsieur Fauchelevant like the blade of a dagger. "Are you working for the police? Are you a spy? Was that your plan, to set Javert free?"

Monsieur Fauchelevant frowned. "No."

Grantaire was not convinced. "Really? Then perhaps you could enlighten me on why you let Javert go and then told us all that he was dead?"

"I am not a spy, and I am not working for the police," Monsieur Fauchelevant said firmly. "If that is not enough for you, than I'm sorry but—"

"No, that is not enough," Grantaire snapped suddenly. "I want an explanation."

Monsieur Fauchelevant suddenly looked away in anger and disgust. "I am not discussing this with you any longer," he declared. "Gentlemen, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave." He opened the door and stepped to the side of it, beckoning them to go. Neither Grantaire nor Marius moved.

Grantaire frowned stubbornly at him. "I'm not leaving until I have an explanation."

Monsieur Fauchelevant scolded. "Well, I'm not giving you an explanation," he hissed. "I'm not saying another word of this to you or to anyone. Now, this is my house, and I'm telling you to leave… Go!"

Grantaire did not move.

"Or do I have to have the authorities come here and make you go?" Monsieur Fauchelevant threatened. Then, raising his voice, he commanded, "I'm serious, leave now!"

Every word that was exchanged between Grantaire and Monsieur Fauchelevant, Marius could feel Cosette slipping farther and farther out of his grasp. Now, as Monsieur Fauchelevant stood before him, telling him to go away, he felt that his heart was breaking. That this man was telling him to leave and to never return. He knew that if he obeyed, he would never see Cosette again…

"Get out of my house!" Monsieur Fauchelevant violently ordered, no longer bothering to be respectful. "Go away! _Leave!_"

"Wait! Monsieur, please!" Marius suddenly cried out, rushing forward and gently laying his hand upon Monsieur Fauchelevant arm, coming before him as if he were a beggar pleading for mercy. "Javert took one of our friends captive!" Marius burst out. And then he began to slip everything. "Javert is hurting him. We think he's torturing him. Monsieur, if we don't do anything soon, Javert will kill him!"

As Marius spoke, a slight change could be seen on Monsieur Fauchelevant's face. He looked at Marius with deep concentration as he continued to speak.

Marius saw this and hastily went on. "Monsieur, do you remember Enjolras? He was the leader of the rebellion. The man who let you have Javert. Do you remember him, monsieur?"

Monsieur Fauchelevant, not taking his eyes off of Marius, gave a small nod. "Yes, I remember him," he said quietly.

"Javert took him," Marius told Monsieur Fauchelevant. "That's why we had to come to you. Monsieur, we need your help. If we don't do something soon, Javert will kill him…" Marius's voice trailed off and fell silent.

For a moment, Monsieur Fauchelevant said nothing. He just looked at Marius, his face in an expression of deep thought. Then, he slowly turned and shut the door.

Marius felt that this whole time he had been holding his breath and he finally started to breathe again. He took a few steps backward, letting go of Monsieur Fauchelevant's arm. He looked over at Grantaire. He was staring at the wall across the room, as if in careful thought.

Monsieur Fauchelevant turned back to Marius and Grantaire, his face completely different now. It was still stern and serious, but it was also understanding, gentle, and moved with pity. "Come sit down," he said quietly, motioning to the small sofa.

Marius went over to it and sat down, and Grantaire sat beside him. Monsieur Fauchelevant took a seat in the chair across from them. He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees, folding his hands as if he were praying. For a moment, he looked across the room, as if thinking. Then, he let out a deep sigh and raised his eyes to look at Marius.

Marius looked back into his eyes, and for a moment he felt that he was looking into the eyes of a father. Marius never knew his father. He never had one. But for this moment, he felt that Monsieur Fauchelevant was as much as father to him as he was to Cosette. He knew it was silly, considering that they were still not convinced that he wasn't a spy, but as Marius looked into this man's eyes, he felt that this was a man that he could trust and look up to.

"Did you know about this?" Grantaire quietly asked Monsieur Fauchelevant, finally breaking the silence that had fallen over the room.

Monsieur Fauchelevant turned his eyes to look at Grantaire. "No," he answered quietly, and for the first time, Grantaire believed that he was hearing the truth.

Grantaire let out a heavy breath. "Then, what do you know?"

Monsieur Fauchelevant sighed, shaking his head, and looking away from Grantaire. "I know that Javert is a very passionate man. He won't stop at anything until he finds justice…"

"Monsieur, what do we do?" Marius whispered the way a young, lost child might ask his father for help. Monsieur Fauchelevant turned his eyes to look at Marius. Marius's face was sad, scared, desperate. "If we do not get him out of there soon, Javert will kill him." Marius found himself unable to look Monsieur Fauchelevant in the eye and he looked down at his feet. His voice breaking and his heart shattering, Marius whispered, "It might already be too late…"

"Marius…" Monsieur Fauchelevant said quietly. Marius raised his eyes to look at him. "Listen to me…" Marius listened. With a quick glance at Grantaire, Monsieur Fauchelevant continued, "I give you both my word that I had no idea. That I knew nothing of any of this. That I am not allied with the police. That I did not come to the barricade to betray you." He moved his eyes to Grantaire. "No, I did not kill Javert. I let him go because I thought that was what the Lord would want me to do. I did not think the man deserved to die. He was only doing his duty."

"Well, now he's torturing our friend to death," Grantaire muttered.

Monsieur Fauchelevant sighed. "You two are going to try to break him out of prison," Monsieur Fauchelevant said. It was not a question.

"What else can we do?" Grantaire exclaimed. "What would you do? Do you suggest that we just sit out here, try to forget about him, and let him die?" Bitterly Grantaire added, "Because something tells me that would not be what this Lord of yours would want us to do."

"I know that," Monsieur Fauchelevant said quietly. "I am not saying that you should not try to save him. …If it was my friend, I would do the same thing."

"Monsieur, what do we do?" Marius asked softly. "Can you help us? Is there anything you know that might be able to help us save him? Anything at all…?"

Monsieur Fauchelevant sighed and looked away. For a long time, he stared at the floor, not saying a word. He was thinking, carefully considering everything that had happened, everything that he had heard. At last, he looked back up at the young boys before him.

"Monsieur, you should see a doctor," he said quietly to Grantaire. "That wound does not look good, and it is starting to get infected. You need to get some medicine."

Marius immediately looked up at Grantaire, suddenly terrified, as if because Grantaire's wound was "starting to get infected" that he might spontaneously drop dead at any moment.

Grantaire shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere until Enjolras is safe."

Monsieur Fauchelevant did not say anything. He turned his eyes to Marius and let out a heavy sigh. "If you two plan on crossing Javert then he will not stop chasing you for the rest of your lives. You would have to leave Paris… I would suggest leaving France all together."

"We'll deal with that later," Grantaire said. "First, let's just focus on getting Enjolras out of there before Javert kills him."

"Monsieur," Marius said quietly, "do you know how we can get in?"

Monsieur Fauchelevant's face was grave and his voice was solemn. "It's not getting into the prison that is the problem. It's getting back out…"

"Right," Grantaire nodded. He already expected this. "So, how do we get in?"

Monsieur Fauchelevant thought for a moment. At last he answered, "The easiest way to get in would probably be to scale the wall when the guard is not at his post."

"Scale the wall?" Marius cried out in disbelief. "That's impossible…"

He shook his head. "No, it isn't."

Marius frowned, more confused than anything. "Just right in the front, near the entrance?"

Monsieur Fauchelevant shook his head. "If you go around the side of the prison, on the right side, the wall is a little shorter and a lot less structured. It might be possible for you to climb straight up and over, or if you can not, you will have to use a rope, but either way, you will be able to get in."

Grantaire listened, frowning, not showing a sign of any thought on his face, but Marius was listening to Monsieur Fauchelevant the way a child might listen to their grandfather, never breaking eye contact, nodding enthusiastically whenever he explained something.

"When the prisoners are out working, there are guards are always walking around the top of the wall, but they leave their posts, right at sunset, when they are bringing the prisoners back to their cells. You will have to time it perfectly to make sure no one sees you climb over the wall."

"Can't we just wait until the prisoners have gone in and the guards are gone?" Grantaire asked.

But Monsieur Fauchelevant shook his head. "Once all of the prisoners are inside, the doors are locked and there is no chance of getting into the prison."

Grantaire dropped his eyes and nodded.

"Once you've gotten over, it will lead you straight to the docks were the prisoners pull in the ships. Then, if you look to your left, you will see the prisoners going into the jail. Somehow, you will have to get through those doors without any of the guards noticing. Then, once your inside, you will have to just keep searching until you find Enjolras… The cells where they keep the prisoners are probably to the left, but if Javert is really torturing him, like you say he is, I do not think he will be in the same cells as all the other men…" Monsieur Fauchelevant's voice trialed off and he gazed across the room, thinking.

For a long moment, no one said anything. Then, at last, Grantaire spoke. "Monsieur, how do you know all of this?" he asked quietly.

"I just do."

Grantaire shook his head. "Most people don't just know, in perfect detail, how to break into a prison."

Monsieur Fauchelevant ran a hand over his face and closed his eyes. "Please, do not ask me questions, monsieur. I'm trying to help you…"

"Grantaire…" Marius whispered, and that word alone was enough to tell Grantaire, _"Stop. This is enough. Leave him alone."_

Grantaire let out a deep sigh. "Alright, then." After a moment, raising his eyes to look into Monsieur Fauchelevant's, he asked, "Once we're in the prison and we find Enjolras, what's the best way out?"

Monsieur Fauchelevant did not answer for a long time. He gazed across the room for such a long time, that Marius found himself following his eyes to see what he was looking at. It was the small wooden crucifixion of Christ the hung on the wall over the fireplace.

"Maybe…" Monsieur Fauchelevant said at last, still not taking his eyes off of the cross. "…through the sea. If you could get back out to the docks then you might be able to escape into the bay. That would be possible if you have a boat, or climb aboard a passing ship, or if you all can swim well enough…"

"If we can get back out to the docks…" Grantaire echoed. "How good a chance is there of this happening?"

Monsieur Fauchelevant turned his eyes to Grantaire and shook his head. "Not very good. Once the prisoners are back in their cells, the doors that lead to the docks are locked. If you can manage to get a key, or somehow break the door down, that would be the only way out…"

"Or, maybe, we could pick the lock," Grantaire suggested.

"Perhaps," Monsieur Fauchelevant agreed.

"Monsieur, is that the only way out?" Marius asked him.

Monsieur Fauchelevant shook his head. "There are other ways. You could try climbing over the walls again, but you would still have to get out to the docks, and the walls are harder to scale from the inside." He thought for a moment. "The only other way out that I can think of would be through the front gate, and in order to get out that way, you would have to somehow disguise yourselves and convince the guards that you are all prison officials."

Marius nodded sadly. There was defiantly a way to get in, but there was not much hope of getting back out.

A long silence fell over these three men, as each of them sat absorbed in their own thoughts. Finally, Grantaire stood up and spoke, breaking the silence. "Thank you, Monsieur Fauchelevant," he said sincerely.

Monsieur Fauchelevant stood up, as well, followed by Marius.

Grantaire looked at Marius. "We really should be going now…"

Marius nodded. Then, he turned to Monsieur Fauchelevant. "Thank you so much, monsieur. We can't tell you how important it is to us…"

Monsieur Fauchelevant nodded. The three men, as if they were all thinking of one mind, exited the room and started heading for the door. "I really do wish you both the best of luck," he said after a moment.

When they heard his voice, Grantaire and Marius both knew that this man meant every word. They reached the door and prepared to leave.

"My prayers will be with you…" Monsieur Fauchelevant told them.

"Thank you, Monsieur Fauchelevant," Marius said quietly, turning to look him in the eyes.

"You're welcome, Marius…"

Grantaire looked over at Monsieur Fauchelevant and shallowly bowed his head. Then, he laid his hand on Marius's arm, in a way they told him it was time to go. They turned to leave. Grantaire stepped out of the door and out onto the porch. Marius followed behind him, and was about to go.

"Marius…" Monsieur Fauchelevant quietly said, putting his hand on Marius's shoulder to stop him from leaving.

Marius turned to face him. "Yes, monsieur?"

Monsieur Fauchelevant lowered his voice and spoke quietly to Marius. "Marius, please, be careful," he whispered.

Marius nodded. He was not expecting this, but it touched his heart to know that Monsieur Fauchelevant was worried about him. "I will be, monsieur."

Monsieur Fauchelevant looked Marius in the eyes. "Monsieur, whatever happens, please just come hope…"

Marius slowly nodded, surprised that Monsieur Fauchelevant was saying this.

Monsieur Fauchelevant's face changed. It became sad, afraid, even desperate… His voice dropped even lower, and he whispered, "…because my little Cosette really loves you, you know. It will break her heart if you did not come back to her…"


	11. Chapter XI

Chapter XI

_This might be it. Today might end it all. I might get to see my friends again today…_

Enjolras felt a small smile in his heart as he thought these words. Today was feeding day, and therefore, beating day. Enjolras did not think that he would survive today. There were wounds covering his entire body, all of them inflamed and infected. At the slightest movement, shift of his body, tensing of his muscles, his wounds broke open and started bleeding. He was so weak. He knew the end was coming. It would not be long before he died of thirst, or starvation, or blood loss, or infection. He knew he was dying. Everyday he felt that he was getting closer and closer to the end of the tunnel.

Enjolras sat still on the ground, leaning back against the pole, his eyes closed. It would not be long before Javert returned. First, he would force him to drink some water and to ingest some bread that was so stale that eating it was like trying to chew a rock. Then, Javert would question him. Enjolras would refuse to speak. 4461 would appear and give Enjolras another beating. Enjolras would be left unconscious and bleeding.

But Enjolras looked past all of this. He was not sorrowful for the events that were soon to come. He was not afraid. In fact, he welcomed these events.

When a woman is with child, she does not anticipate the hour of the baby's birth with fear because she dreads the pain of labor, but she looks past that hour of agony and to the much longer lasting joy that will come after it. Her happiness for seeing her new child is too great for her to even remember the pain, and so she forgets about it.

That was how Enjolras felt now. He did not think about the agony that he would feel as the lash struck him, wounding him, destroying him, killing him. To him, this was just the short time of darkness that would be followed by an eternity in the light. He was sure that just as soon as the pain hit, it would all be over. He was sure that this was going to be the final beating. He was sure he was going to die.

Than, what would he do? He would get to see his friends again. He wondered what he would say to them. He had so much he wanted to say to them. For a brief moment, it crossed his mind that they would be angry with him for killing them, but he was sure that they would forgive him. They would be happy to see him. He would be happy to see them. He wondered if he would cry. He never let his friends see him cry, never once. But he was not sure that he would care anymore. He would just be so happy to see them that he did not think he would care about anything else.

_I'll get to see Grantaire, again, _Enjolras thought, and a warm light came into his heart. Then, he would be able to fix everything that had ever happened between them. He would thank Grantaire for standing beside him until the end and apologize from not being able to save him. Then, he would apologize for every bad thing that he had ever said to Grantaire. He had ever right and reason to be, but Enjolras did not think Grantaire would be mad at him. Grantaire would forgive him, just like all the other boys. And then, they would all live together forever in a free world.

_Black, the night that ends at last…_

Enjolras heard someone come through the door. He opened his eyes and turned to look at the door. As he knew it would be, it was Javert. A bizarre smile appeared on Enjolras's lip. "Good morning, inspector," he said quietly, greeting Javert as a welcomed guest.

The look on Javert's face was so terrible, so hungry, so murderous that when he turned his dark eyes to fix them on Enjolras, Enjolras was certain that he was about to kill him. But instead of feeling fear, he felt hope.

At once, Javert strode towards Enjolras. He drew a knife out of his coat. In seconds, he was upon Enjolras. In one move, he slashed the ropes off his wrists with his knife, then, he seized Enjolras with both hands and yanked him to his feet. Enjolras felt his body being lifted off the ground and he could do nothing to resist. A moment later, he felt the terrible pain cut through his body, piercing every part of him, pulsing through his veins, penetrating through his flesh as Javert slammed him against the stone wall. At once, Enjolras could feel his wounds ripping open and blood began to flow down his body.

Enjolras's eyes pinched shut as his head slammed into the wall. When he opened them, the first thing he saw was Javert's terrible face, like the face of a raging lion, just a few inches away from his own.

Javert's voice thundered through the cell, echoing off the walls, shaking through the stone, making the ground tremble. "Who is Marius Pontmercy?!" Javert roared.

Enjolras stared uncomprehendingly at Javert.

Javert's face twisted with anger. "Answer me!" He slammed Enjolras against the wall again.

Enjolras could not suppress a soft cry as the rough stone of the walk tore his wounds apart. These stones of the walls, unevenly cut, were sharp and jagged and sunk into Enjolras's skinless body like the blades of knives sinking into a piece of raw, bloody meat.

Javert suddenly realized how deadly a weapon the mere stone was, the terrible pain that these stones were inflicting to Enjolras. Then he suddenly pushed Enjolras forward, slamming him against the wall, and, this time, he left him there, pressing him against the wall, the rocks digging into his back, cutting into his open wounds. Enjolras let out a cry of pain.

"Answer me!" Javert bellowed again.

"Let me go!" Enjolras screamed back at him. "Get off!"

Javert only slammed Enjolras forward again and the rocks sunk deeper into his flesh. Enjolras could feel the rock cutting into him. The pain was so terrible. Enjolras could not escape it. The daggers sank into his body. Pain choked him. Blinded him. Enjolras fought desperately against Javert's strength, trying to get away. But Javert was too strong. And he was too weak.

Enjolras heard Javert yelling at him, screaming at him, his voice reverberating though his head like a thunderstorm. He felt his body going weak. A moment later, Enjolras fell unconscious and Javert was left pinning what appeared to be a dead body against the wall. Driven with rage, Javert flung this body away, throwing it to the stone ground.

On the impact, Enjolras was awoken by the pain. His head slammed against the stone. He felt his ears pop, and a screeching sharp sound, like the blade of a dagger, pierced through his head, screamed in his ears. He could not see anything.

For a moment, Enjolras lay limply facedown against the cold stone ground. Pain pulsed through his body like a deadly toxin. He could not move. He lay there still, not moving, just barely breathing, his face pressed against the stone. His eyes were closed, as he waited. He waited to die.

_Grantaire! Put that bottle down! There are men out here sacrificing their lives for your freedom and this is how you repay them?! By drowning yourself in a bottle to drink away whatever little wit you might have?! _

_Please, don't be angry with me, Enjolras. I wish I was strong like you, but I'm not._

Enjolras rolled his eyes. _It has nothing to do with strength, Grantaire. It only depends on will, heart, and courage. _

Grantaire looked sadly at Enjolras. _Those_ _are three qualities that make a great man. Those qualities come natural to a strong leader, like you. But I have none of them. _

Enjolras scolded, his face changing in disgust. _That's because you're too ignorant, too lazy, and too selfish to put the damn bottle down. _

Grantaire dropped his eyes away from Enjolras and looked sadly down at the bottle in his hands. Without looking up, he muttered, so quietly that Enjolras had barely heard him, _Enjolras, if I could be strong I would be… but I'm not strong… I'm not like you… _

Enjolras scolded, turned his back on Grantaire, and began to walk away from him. Just as he was leaving, he heard Grantaire say one last thing, maybe to the boys sitting around him, or maybe, to himself.

_I wouldn't even be here, right now, at this barricade where we all know that we will all die. But this is where Enjolras led me to, and this is where I followed him. I would follow him to whatever end. Into the dark. I know that I am weak and a coward… but Enjolras is strong. And he gives me hope. _

The words that Grantaire had spoken at the barricade were nothing to him but something to scorn and roll his eyes at. But now he heard them strong and clear, not only with his ears, as he had before, but also with his soul. Enjolras opened his eyes. He was sure that, wherever he was, Grantaire was watching him now. Enjolras would not let him down. He had to stay strong. He had to die strong for Grantaire…

Enjolras weakly moved his arms, placed his hands on the stone beside him, and pushed himself up off the ground. His weak arms trembled beneath him, but he managed to lift himself off the ground. Then he forced his legs to start moving. He got to his knees. Pushed himself up. He got too his feet. He stood. Then, he turned around to face Javert.

Javert was glaring at him with that, dark, loathing hatred in his eyes. Enjolras glared back at him, standing strong. The same way he stood before Javert when Grantaire was by his side.

Javert suddenly came at him, holding his knife in his hand. He seized Enjolras with on hand and pushed him back up against the wall. Enjolras felt the pain hit him again, as the stones tore into his wounds. He gritted his teeth and did not cry out. Not a moment later, he felt the cold blade of Javert's knife pressed against his throat. He looked up and gazed into the eyes that blazed with dark fire.

Javert's face was so close to Enjolras's that when he spoke, Enjolras could feel his breath like, cold wind, blowing against his face. "Who is Marius Pontmercy?"

Enjolras stared at Javert. Who is Marius Pontmercy? Marius Pontmercy. Marius? How did Javert know Marius's name? It did not matter. Javert had his name, and now he wanted him to turn in Marius and his family. Enjolras looked into Javert's eyes and tried to read the thoughts behind them. At last, he spoke, "I don't know."

There was a suddenly flash of metal before Enjolras's eyes and a terrible pain cut across his mouth. Javert's knife had slashed him opening a bleeding wound that ran across his chin and into his lips. Enjolras turned his face away. His chin, his jaw, his mouth burned. It felt as if there was poisonous acid tearing across his face, eating away at his flesh, devouring him like a hungry beast. Enjolras felt hot blood running down his chin, tasted it in his mouth, saw it falling away from his face and dripping down towards the stone floor, like red rain.

Javert's hand seized Enjolras's face, intentionally grabbing the bleeding slit in his chin, which sent sharp pains shooting up Enjolras face, through his skull, and into his head. Javert yanked his head forward so that he had to look back into Javert's eyes.

"DO NOT LIE TO ME!" Javert roared into Enjolras's face. "Every time you lie, I am going to cut your mouth, until the point that you can no longer speak, and then I will start working on your tongue, taking it out piece by piece!"

Enjolras felt the way a man would feel if he were pinned against the wall by a ferocious bear that was hungry for blood and about to devour him. Enjolras stared into Javert's terrible face, too afraid to disobey him. He did not speak.

"Now, answer the question!" Javert's snarled. "Where is Marius Pontmercy?!"

Enjolras stared at Javert as his words ran through his head. _Where is Marius Pontmercy…? _ That question did not make any since. Marius Pontmercy was dead. His body was heaved away and dumped into some pit with the rest of the men who had fallen in the battle…

A moment later, Enjolras watched something flash through Javert's hungry eyes. It was that look of fear, regret, anger that flashes across a man's face when he realizes that he has said something that he should not have, that he has given something away, that he has said too much…

Enjolras's heart suddenly lit up in flames. For the first time since Javert took him to this prison, his soul began to blaze with the same passion, the same pride, the same hope that burned within him as he lead the people to revolution. Enjolras opened his bleeding lips and spoke. "Marius is alive?"

Javert saw this light, this spirit, this joy pass through Enjolras's soul and illuminate his face and his own face suddenly became so angry and hideous that if the face of Hatred was tangible and a man was able to look upon it, they would have seen the same face that Javert wore now. "No, he is dead," Javert denied. "The only traitors still alive are you and 24601, and you will answer all of my questions and not ask any of your own!"

Enjolras looked into Javert's face and he no longer looked afraid. "He is alive," Enjolras softly spoke. When he heard the words come out of his mouth, he felt a deep warmth come into his soul. Marius was alive. He would never see him again in this life, but he was alive. Young Marius still had a life to live. And he would live it. Marius was free… The very thought of it, made Enjolras's soul leap for joy. Marius was alive. He had seen the look on Javert's face. He knew Marius had to be alive…

Javert hit Enjolras in the face. "All of your friends are dead! Marius Pontmercy was shot in the battle and died with the rest of them! Now, answer the question!"

Enjolras did not answer.

He knew what Javert said was true. The in his soul began to fade away. Enjolras had seen Marius get shot. He saw him fall… No, Marius was not alive… Marius was dead, just like all the rest of his friends…

Wait! There was something else that Enjolras suddenly he remembered. Something else he had seen. It had never even crossed his mind until this moment. Just after Marius had gotten shot and he fell to the ground, a man had rushed past Enjolras, out of the café, and to Marius's side. Just as Enjolras was blockading the door to the café, he vaguely caught a glimpse of this man dragging off Marius's body.

Enjolras suddenly felt a deep feeling of realization fall down on him like rain. Everything suddenly began to fall together. It still did not make since, but he could see where the broken fragments of this shattered picture were beginning to come back into place. Enjolras knew the man who had taken Marius's body. It was Jean Valjean…

Things were still not making since. Jean Valjean had taken Marius. Why? To help him? To save him? It was possible. But it still made no since that this man, this same man who had saved Enjolras's life, the life of many of the other boys, and, perhaps, Marius's life, as well, had also saved Javert's life. None of it made since anymore.

Enjolras tried to clear his head. There were some things that he knew for sure about this mysterious prisoner 24601. He knew Jean Valjean was a former convict who had escaped prison and was now on the run. He knew that Jean Valjean had come to the barricade, saved his life, saved Javert's life, and then told the rebels that Javert was dead. And now Javert was after the man who spared his life…

There was one thing that Enjolras did not know, the one thing that he wanted to know the most. Had Jean Valjean saved Marius? Was Marius alive? He did not know. He could not say for sure. Perhaps, the reason he was so certain that his friend had survived was because he was so desperate. Was Marius really alive? He did not know. But now, at least, there was hope where, before, there had been none.

Javert slammed Enjolras into the wall. "Answer me!" he roared again.

Enjolras felt the pain hit him. At the same time, as if the impact knocked the words into his head, he heard Grantaire's voice.

_I would follow him to whatever end. Into the dark. I know that I am weak and a coward… but Enjolras is strong. And he gives me hope._

"You have one more chance," Javert warned him, his voice low and threatening. "Tell me now, everything you know about Marius Pontmercy!"

Enjolras opened his lips and a thin stream of blood was released out of the corner of his mouth and ran down his chin. Enjolras answered Javert on one word. "Never."

Javert hit Enjolras so hard he was knocked off his feet and fell to the ground. Enjolras barely caught himself before he slammed into the solid stone. Before he had time to even raise his head, Javert's boot, with the force of a bullet being shot out of a musket, kicked Enjolras in his side, pounding him like an iron hammer right in his broken ribs.

_Crack!_

The pain slammed into Enjolras like one of those terrible, crashing waves that smashes into the beach, crushing everything in its path. The wave sucks a victim under the water so that they cannot breathe, they cannot move, and they cannot feel anything except for the pain. For a moment, Enjolras felt the sensation that he was being thrown limply under the wave as it rolled furiously over the jagged rocks that emerged from the sand like tombstones in a graveyard. In reality, this only goes on for a few seconds, but to the victim that is trapped helpless under the crushing black water, it is a frightful eternity that, for a moment, the fear will never end. At last, Enjolras felt himself emerging from the abyss. He gasped, drawling a huge breath of air into his lungs. His body trembled with pain.

Enjolras heard Javert's heavy footfalls behind him. At once, Enjolras looked over his shoulder to see Javert coming towards him, like a mad bull in mid-charge. He desperately, on his hands and knees, drug himself across the stone floor and into the corner of the room, where he buried himself, curled up in the corner, rapped his arms and legs tightly against his body to protect himself, pressed himself against the walls, trying to become as small as possible, trying to get as far away from Javert as he could. But it was not enough to hide from Javert. Javert could not be escaped.

Javert threw himself at Enjolras, leaning against him with his full weight, practically crushing Enjolras's fragile bones and weak flesh, pinning him to the corner so that he had no where to go.

Javert pressed his knife tightly against Enjolras throat. So tightly that the slightest movement would have slit it open. Javert's terrible cold eyes blared into Enjolras's like cold, bitter winter casting a brutal and deadly frost into the young and innocent spring. Enjolras felt the ice crystals forming on his heart.

Javert spoke to Enjolras. His voice was so dark, so cold, so terrible that Enjolras's flesh, though drowning in hot blood, went as cold as the bodies of the dead and began to craw with gooseflesh. It was not the voice of a man, but of something far more treacherous. Like the voice of a creature that had emerged from within the darkest pit of hell.

"I am not. Afraid. To kill you."

Enjolras was weak, defenseless, and helpless. For a long moment, he stared back into Javert's murdering eyes, searching them for any trance of humanity. He found none. Instead, he saw only the beast that had murdered his friends and then thrown their bodies out for the dogs and vultures to feast upon.

Anger like fire began to burn through Enjolras's veins, melting the ice away. His face hardened, becoming dark, cold, and impenetrable, like stone. His eyes blazed with the fire that burned in his soul. He opened his lips and spoke in a low, terrible voice that was dry and icy like the bitter winter wind.

"Kill me."


	12. Chapter XII

Chapter XII

Javert drew the blade across Enjolras, cutting him open.

Enjolras felt the blinding pain tear across him. He felt the hot blood be released and pour down his body. He felt the deep wound that had appeared in his flesh. But he was still alive.

Javert did not kill Enjolras. As he pulled the knife away, he pulled in down so that instead of slicing Enjolras's throat and delivering the lethal blow, the blade struck lower, just below his throat, cutting open a long gash across his collarbone.

Javert, blazing with fury, threw Enjolras's body to the ground. Enjolras threw out his hands to catch himself just before his face made impact with the stone, and he watched his own blood splatter across the floor below him.

"Guard!" Enjolras heard Javert yell. "Take him upstairs."

Enjolras felt someone grab him from behind and pull him to his feet. Enjolras's weak legs trembled underneath him and were barely able to hold him up. The guard, gripping Enjolras by his arms and dragged him across the room. Javert followed close behind.

Enjolras stumbled, struggling not to fall back to the ground as the guard led him out of the cell and through the dark maze of tunnels. When they reached the staircase, despite his efforts to climb them, the guard had to practically drag Enjolras up the steps. By the time they got back to the main floor of the prison, Enjolras was struggling just to stay conscious.

He stumbled blindly down the dark corridors, completely oblivious to anything around him. In short time, the guard opened a door and Enjolras was pushed inside.

A young prison guard was posted in this room. When he heard the door open, he looked up. He saw a bloody mess of ripped up flesh stumble through the door and fall to the ground. It was a man. At once, the blood drained from this boy's face. He stared down at the blood covered prisoner, and he swayed slightly were he stood, like he might pass out.

Enjolras weakly raised his head and saw the boy standing on the other side of the room. He looked into this young face, and he saw the same youth, innocence, and fear that he saw in the faces of the soldiers. He was only a boy.

This boy was new to the prison, just starting to work there. So, he was charged with preparing the convicts before they were brought to their cells. Some of the convicts were a little beat up when they were brought to him. But he had never seen anything like this before…

The young boy stared down at Enjolras for a long moment before he suddenly realized that Javert was standing there looking at him. The boy hastily bowed to Javert. "Inspector Javert…" His voice was thin and afraid. Javert barely nodded to the boy, wearing a face that told him to get on with it.

The young guard, against their own will, approached Enjolras and reached out for him with trembling hands. The boy, trying to gain control over his shaking limbs, forced his hands to take Enjolras's arms. The boy felt like his fingers were sinking into some skinned and uncooked game. The boy felt the hot blood running over his hands, seeping through his fingers, when he touched this prisoner's mutilated flesh.

He could feel his innards begin to work in reverse, and he feared that his lunch might come up on the floor. He cleared his throat, trying to choke down anything that might come up back into his stomach. He tried to get this prisoner to his feet, but he could not bring himself to pull him too forcefully because he was afraid that he might pull the mangled bits of flesh clear off his body.

Enjolras struggled to get up. He used his hands to push his body off the floor and the guard helped him get to his feet.

First, the boy clothed Enjolras in a pair of old trousers that were ripped and worn by sun, rain, wind, the waves at the galleys, the sweat of other prisoners, time, labor, and misery. He was then dressed in a red shirt, confirming his status as a prisoner for life, which hung low on his chest, revealing the infection and bloody wounds that scared his chest and neck.

Then, Enjolras sat on the ground, not moving, not resisting, as the boy ran the blunt edge of a knife across his head, cutting off the only beauty of this young revolutionary that, until this moment, Javert had left untouched. Enjolras watched silently as clumps of his thick golden hair fall to the ground around him.

The young guard took handfuls of his beautiful curly hair in one hand and used the other hand to cut it off with a knife. As he shaved Enjolras's head, he could not tear his terror filled eyes away from the wounds on this prisoner's face, his neck, his chest, or the blood soaking through his clothes, dripping out onto the floor around him, getting on his hands when ever the touched him. He looked down at Enjolras, wondering who this man was, what he had done to earn the terrible torture that he had been through, what had motivated him to throw his entire life away at such a young age…

Distracted, the young boy raised the knife to cut off another bunch of Enjolras's hair, and his hand slipped. The boy accidentally brought the blade down too low and it slashed across Enjolras's bare scalp, opening a long slit across the side of his head. The young boy, suddenly realizing what he had done, looked up in panic, which immediately turned to horror when he saw blood on the blade of his knife and watched as it began to pour out of the wound he had just inflicted upon this man.

Enjolras felt the blade slice across his head. He felt the sudden pain cutting through him. He did not cry out.

The young boy, panicked and terrified, suddenly cast his eyes to look at Javert, as if he were expecting the man to suddenly beat him the same way he had beat this prisoner. But Javert did not even seem to have noticed that Enjolras head had been cut. Much less, did he seem to care.

Without a word, the boy looked back down at Enjolras and stared at the blood that was now running down the side of his head. The boy felt as if he were in a daze as he watched his trembling hands move back towards the prisoner and continued to work at cutting the hair off his head.

Enjolras stared at the ground, this entire time. Now, when clumps of his hair fell down to rest on the floor around him, they were tinged red by blood.

When guard finished shaving Enjolras's head, he got him to his feet. Enjolras got up but never took his eyes off the ground. At once, the other guard, who had brought Enjolras from the basement cell, came forward and seized him by his arm, his hand closing around it like an iron clamp.

"Inspector Javert…" Enjolras heard the young guard say from behind him, in a somewhat timid voice. He did not hear Javert answer, but he must have given some response because the guard went on. "Monsieur," the boy said in a very low voice, though he seemed a bit reluctant to go on. He swallowed down his fear and continued, "Monsieur, the prisoner's wounds are badly infected. If he does not receive urgent medical attention, he will die…" The boy's voice faded, and he seemed to be waiting for Javert to respond. When he did not, a few moments later, the boy added, "Monsieur, if you would like, I can call for the prison's doctor…"

Javert did not respond for a moment. He was thinking very carefully. He did not want to give Enjolras medical help. He wanted him to suffer. But he did not want him to die. Enjolras would be no use to him if he was dead…

"Very well," Javert finally muttered, his voice so low that he could barely be heard. Javert glanced at the older guard, who was currently holding Enjolras's arms in a brutal grasp. "Take care of this," he ordered the man. Then, Javert turned and left, disappearing out of Enjolras's sight and knowing.

Enjolras was then led down the hall to another room, which was close to identical to the first room that he had enter when Javert had first brought him to the jail, except there was no flag on the wall, which, instead, was bare, and there was no desk in the middle of the room, where, instead there was an old wooden table that was stained by the liquid that had been spilled all over of the top of it and ran down its legs.

_Red, the blood of angry men…_

Enjolras was ordered to stripe down again, and then he sat silently in the corner of the room, waiting for the doctor to arrive. He leaned back against the wall, and terrible pain shot through his body. He did not care. He did not move.

Enjolras stared down at his legs, which where bent up in front of him, hiding his body from the view of the guard, who stood on the other side of the room, watching him every move. It suddenly dawned on Enjolras how thin his legs were getting. He was becoming so skinny.

Enjolras was hungry. Today was feeding day, but Javert had not fed him. He was hungry and thirsty. He wanted food, even if it was the rock-solid bread that he could not chew without breaking his teeth. He wanted water. But it seemed that he would not have either of these today, or maybe for several more days…

Trying to ignore the pangs of hunger that pierced his stomach like knives, Enjolras closed his eyes and let his head rest back against the wall behind him. At once, pain shot through the fresh wound on his head. Enjolras, startled by the pain, jerked his head way from the wall. For a moment, he just sat in the corner, not moving, not sure what to do.

Then, before he decided on anything, he slowly raised his hand and gently ran his fingers across his shaved head. He could feel the short bristly hairs that were still left upon his head. His hair, his hair that had been so long and beautiful, was now all but gone, cut in uneven patches, some spots were completely bare. Enjolras's fingers grazed the bleeding wound on the side of his head. At his slight touch, it hurt.

The pain, the burning of his wound, reminded him of the young man who had cut him. He was only a boy. He was not trying to hurt Enjolras. He was trying to help him. But still, Enjolras hated the boy. He had not helped Enjolras. He had only made things worse.

"_Monsieur, the prisoner's wounds are badly infected… If he does not receive urgent medical attention, he will die…" _The boy was trying to help Enjolras. He was trying to save him.

_Stupid boy! _Enjolras suddenly thought in anger. Could the boy not see that Enjolras did not want to live? Did he not realize that by making him live, he was only prolonging the pain and suffering of his life? Couldn't he see that Enjolras would rather be dead than keep living in this hell?

Enjolras wanted to die. But now he was going to live. It would be several more days, months,_ years_ before he got to see his friends again. Enjolras felt his heart begin to throb. He had been so certain that he would get to see his friends again today. But now, it seemed, there was still that long dark tunnel dividing him from them, keeping him from getting to them. He would not get to see his friends today. He would have to keep waiting. Waiting forever…

Enjolras suddenly felt tears forming in his eyes. _No! No way! _he refused, and he immediately fought back, forcing the tears to recede back into his eyes. He would not let himself cry in front of the guard, or in front of anyone. He especially promised himself that he would never let himself cry in front of Javert. To let any of these people see him cry would be to show them that he had been defeated. That they had broken him. That they had triumphed and he had failed. That the Friends of the ABC had died in vain. He would never let that happen.

Not a single tear escaped his eyes. The guard never even knew that he was about to cry.

The door opened and the doctor came into the room, carrying with him a leather bag full of his tools. Enjolras raised his eyes and saw the two men, the doctor and the guard, exchanging a few words in low voices. Then the doctor turned his gaze to look at him. At once, Enjolras could see that this man did not care about him. He did not care if he survived or not. He did not care about any of the prisoners, who, in his eyes, were filth that belonged in the dirt along side the snakes and worms.

The doctor ordered Enjolras to get up onto the bloodstained table and lie there face down, so that his bloody and infected back was exposed. The doctor took a few seconds to quickly examine his wounds, roughly press on him in various spots, causing terrible pain to rip through Enjolras's body, but he refused to show it, and then reach into his bag, draw out several metal instruments, and assemble them in a line on the table, just beside Enjolras's face so that he could see them.

Knives, mostly knifes of various size and thickness, needles and thread, strangle thin tools with curved ends that looked like they would be used to dig. Some of these tools were still red with the dried blood of this doctor's last patients.

"Don't move," the doctor curtly instructed. Enjolras did not even have time to brace himself before the man began to pour some liquid that stank like alcohol and burned like fire straight into the gaping wounds all over his back.

Enjolras barely managed hold back a cry of pain. Instead, a faint choking sound emitted from the back of his throat. The liquid was like poison, and when it touched his wounds, he felt that his entire back had just gone up in furious flames that devoured his flesh, hungrily eating it off of his bones. The pain was blinding, agonizing, maddening. Enjolras gripped the edges of the table, digging his fingers into it so that they began to bleed, and pressed his face against its wooden top, struggling to bare the pain.

Finally, the doctor stopped pouring the liquid into his back, but it continued to burn, all the same. Enjolras felt his body getting weak. He lied limply on the table, drawling in deep, heavy breaths, as if he had just being running for a very long distance. His head swam and his vision blurred. Through foggy eyes, he watched the doctor's hand pass in front of his face and took one of the metal tools off the table.

A moment later, Enjolras felt a lethal sharp pain stab into him as the doctor dug into his flesh to remove the sharp splinters of rock that were embedding into his wounds. Enjolras had to slam his eyes shut and bite his teeth down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from crying out, wincing in pain as he felt the doctor twisting the blade of his instrument around, digging it into his flesh, yanking it back out, tearing out fragments of stone. Then, he poured more of the fiery liquid into Enjolras's fresh wounds.

After this, the doctor took a large needle, strung it with thick black thread and put a few jagged lines of stitches across a particularly deep wound on Enjolras's shoulder, across the lower part of his back, in a few other spots that would not stop bleeding.

Then, the doctor ordered Enjolras to roll over so that he could examine the wounds of his chest, stomach, neck and face. The man took a few seconds to glance over the wound, pour more of that liquid into them, and decide to put a few stitches in him, closing up the deep slit across Enjolras's collarbone.

This entire treatment took a total of about eight minutes. The doctor, then, stuffed his tools back into his bag, told the guard retake control over the prisoner, and then left the room, letting the door slam shut behind him.

Enjolras remained still where he lied on the table, looking up at the stone ceiling above him. His entire body trembled with pain. He felt like there was fire burning in his flesh, acid pulsing through his veins. He felt weak, powerless, dying. He was on the threshold of death but was too weak to move his legs and walk through the door that would lead him to the next world.

Enjolras weakly moved a hand towards his neck and let his fingers run across the uneven row of thick stitches that ran across his collarbone. Javert had promised to kill him, but had not. Why couldn't Javert have just killed him? Why couldn't he just die?

"Get up, you!" Enjolras heard the guard snarl from across the room. He threw Enjolras's balled up clothes at his motionless body, and Enjolras felt them hit into his side, making the pain worse.

Enjolras still did not move for a moment. _Come on, Enjolras, you have to be strong for Grantaire… _ Enjolras sat up on the table. Pain trembled though his entire body. Just this simple task of sitting up caused his head to burn and his vision to blur. Enjolras swayed, and a moment later, he leaned over and threw up onto the floor beside the table. Now, the inside of his throat was burring, as well.

_There goes whatever water I had left in my body…_

Enjolras wiped his mouth on his hand and painfully slipped the trousers that the guard had flung at him over his bleeding body. Then, he put on the shirt. After this, it took all of his strength and will to slide off the edge of the table and get to his feet. The guard went straight to him and took him by arms to lead him away.

Shackles, connected by a long thin chain, were secured around his wrists and ankles, adding to the pain that cut through him whenever he moved. Then, the heavy chains were hung around his neck. When they were laid upon his shoulders, Enjolras almost fell over. The guard seized him by the arm and yanked him back up before he fell. At last, the little wooden tag was attached to the chain around his neck. It was marked with the number 86592.

The guard led Enjolras down the long dark halls of the prison, past the cells were most of the prisoners were kept, deeper into the heart of the prison, down a narrow corridor, where, every step, it seemed to get darker and colder. At last they arrived at the very center of the prison. This was a huge room, all stone, like the rest of the prison. The ceiling, the floor, all for walls were completely stone, with no windows or openings, save for the one narrow gate door at the front of the room, which was the only way in or out.

This was the place were only the worst prisoners were kept. All of them would be imprisoned for the rest of their lives, and many of them were sentenced to execution. These prisoners were murderers, kidnappers, rapists, and traitors of France.

The guard briefly informed Enjolras of the things he would not be allowed to do, what all of the men in this particular cell were not allowed to do. He would not be allowed to work at the galleys with the other prisoners. He would not be allowed ever leave this cell unless a high-ranked official had need of him, or if it was to be punished by the guards. He was told that if he caused trouble amongst the other prisoners, he would be taken and beaten by the guards. Then, the guard opened the gate, flung Enjolras into the cell, and locked the gate, trapping him in.

It did not take Enjolras long to learn that this prison was little safer than Javert's torturing chamber. The prisoners in this cell, all of them already condemned to a life in prison or to death, had nothing to lose. These men were constantly at war with one another. They were always trying to prove that they were dominate over the others, in order to maintain the little bit of self-respect that they still had left. The prison was a battle field, on which there were no rules. On which the guns never ceased to fire.

Fights were constantly breaking out amongst the prisoners, in which the men were beaten brutally. The men attacked each other and assaulted each other during the night, while their enemies were sleeping. Many of the men formed what were like small gangs and, sometimes, a gang would attack a single prisoner, springing upon him when he least expected it. On his second day in this cell, Enjolras saw a young prisoner be jumped and beaten to death. It took several hours before the guards discovered his dead body and dragged it away.

The prison was dark and filthy. It was a perfect breeding ground for bacteria and disease. None of the prisoners were ever able to clean themselves, and when they had to go to the bathroom, they had no choice but to go on the ground. The place was crawling with disease. All of the prisoners had either built up immunity to these germs, or they were sick and suffering.

There was a large troth, like that for pigs and animals, at the front of the cell, which was always filled with water. When the prisoners were thirsty, the plunged there mouths into the water and drank from the troth like animals. Because of this, if one of the prisoners became ill, it was not long before they were all infected by the same sickness.

The prisoners were fed once a day. Late in the afternoon, a guard appeared and flung a few loaves of stale bread into the prison and, at once, the men swarmed upon them like a bunch of wild dogs, battling each other for a scrap to eat. Every night, there were prisoners that did not get food and went to bed on empty stomachs. Survival, battle for food, was one of the main causes of rivalry bursting out between prisoners. These rivalries almost always resulted in the beating or the death of a prisoner.

Enjolras kept to himself and tried to stay out of the other prisoners' ways. He barely ever got any food. The few scraps that he was ever able to snatch up were just enough to keep him alive. He was always hungry.

The prison was large and unusually structured. In the far back corner of the room there was a narrow alcove that dipped into the wall, like a small closest with no door. Once Enjolras discovered this little hiding place, he spent most of his time sitting there alone, keeping far away from the other prisoners. During the day, he allowed his eyes to wander around the prison and he observed his fellow convicts.

Most of them had hard stone, faces that reminded him of prisoner 4461. But there was something else in the eyes of many of them. This was the same thing that he saw when he looked into the eyes of Javert. Hatred, darkness, evil. Most of these men were much older then Enjolras, though there were a few that look to be about his age. Almost all of the men had large, strong bodies, which they had earned from constantly baring their several heavy chains. All of these men had shaved heads and long, unshaven beards.

There was a little bit of hair growing out on Enjolras's own face, but he had never grown a long beard as many men did. Though he had known more suffering, more pain, more misery, more death than most old men that lie dying have known in all of their lives, there was still a strong youth about Enjolras that set him apart from the other prisoners. That made Enjolras, and one other, the only prisoners in this cell whose faces were not hidden by a tangled mess of hair.

Enjolras had not even seen this other prisoner until his fourth day in the cell, at feeding time. Enjolras had just managed to snatch up a little bit of bread that had fallen to the ground as the other prisoners fought over the big loaves of bread. Just as he was retreating back to his hiding place in the corner of the cell, Enjolras heard someone scream.

The scream was terrible. It seemed to price straight through him like a knife. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up and his skin bristle with goose bumps. It was not the scream of one of these strong, bold, and terrible prisoners, but the cry of someone young, helpless, and innocent. It was the cry of a child.

Enjolras instinctively turned around. That was when he had seen him. The prisoner had apparently tried to take a piece of bread that another, stronger man had already been going for, and the strong man was beating him with his fist, punishing him for trying to steal his meal.

When Enjolras saw the prisoner being beaten, he felt like someone had hit him in the chest. This prisoner was dressed in a red shirt and heavy chains, like all of the others. His head was shaved and there were bruises on his face, like all of the others. But this prisoner was nothing like any of the others. He was only a child. A little boy. He could not have been more than eight years old, and yet, he was a prisoner for life, thrown into this prison with all of these killers and murderers. Enjolras could not imagine what terrible judgment of Providence had landed with poor little child in such an awful place.

When Enjolras looked at this boy, he saw Gavroche. They were both so small, so young, so innocent. And they had both been condemned to terrible fates that they did not deserve.

Two prisoners were pinning the little boy to the ground while a third man, the strong man, hit him again and again, slamming his heavy fist into the child's precious face. The boy was screaming, crying out for help. But no one went to him. No one helped him. No one seemed to hear him.

Before Enjolras was even aware of what he was doing, he was running across the prison, running to the little boy. In only a second, he was upon this terrible scene. The huge, strong prisoner continued to hit the little boy, screaming terrible things at him, roaring at him a hungry beast. Abruptly and out of nowhere, the way a bullet hits a man before he ever sees it coming, this prisoner felt something hit him square in his nose.

The man fell backward and he slammed into the stone floor, sprawling out on his back. This was enough to cause the other two men who were pinning the boy to the ground to snap their heads up and look around in shock and anger, loosening their holds on the child. In this brief moment, the boy was able to squirm out of their grasp and flee across the cell, slipping into an unknown hiding spot, and disappearing.

The strong prisoner abruptly sat back up, surprised and furious, pain throbbing through his broken nose, fueling his anger like coal fuels the flames in a furnace. That was when he saw the young prisoner standing a few steps before him, his hand still flinched in a fist. The tag on his chain read number 86592.


	13. Chapter XIII

Chapter XIII

The prisoner sprang at Enjolras, slammed him against the wall, pinning him there, and this man and his three comrades started to hit him. Again and again, they slammed him with their fists. Enjolras tried to fight back, tried to get away, but these men were too strong, and he was too weak.

At first, the strong prisoner went for Enjolras's face, hitting him several times, bruising his cheek, blackening his eye, reopening the wound on his lips, causing his nose to stream out blood. Then, one of the prisoners drove his first into Enjolras's ribs, and Enjolras cried out in pain. That's when the men realized how much more terrible it would be it hit this prisoner again and again in his sides, on his stomach, on his chest. More and more wounds opened over Enjolras's body and blood began to soak through his clothes and splatter out onto the prisoners whenever they hit him.

Enjolras felt the pain. He felt his body going weak and consciousness begin to slip away from him. His ears were ringing, his vision was blurring, he could not breathe. He stopped fighting back. A few moments later, he passed out and his body collapsed to the floor. But the three prisoners continued to beat him, again and again.

This went on for several seconds before the shrill whistle of the guards pierced through the prison, echoing off the stone walls of the cell. A guard had heard the commotion and ran to the cell in time to see these three men slamming their fists into a lifeless body. The guard, not wishing to throw himself into the battle, drew a pistol and fired it at the ceiling. Then he aimed through the bars of the gate at the three prisoners. This was enough to get them to back off of Enjolras's limp body.

"What is the meaning of this?!" the guard roared at the prisoners.

The strong prisoner, whose nose Enjolras had broken, spoke up and told the guard that prisoner number 86592 had attacked him. The guard had to believe him, because his nose, broke, bruised, and swollen, was proof. According to this prisoner's account, the assault of 86592 was completely unprovoked. "I hadn't done nothin' to him," the prisoner grumbled. "I was only trying to get me some bread, and he attacked me."

The guard turned his eyes to look at the limp body of prisoner 86592. Blood was seeping out of the man's clothes and pooling out on the floor around him. The guard turned back to the other three prisoners. "If a man attacks you, you leave it to the prison officials to handle." This was the same thing the guards told the prisoners whenever a fight broke out, but it never changed any prisoner's actions. "Now, leave that man alone and be on your way."

"Aren't you gona punish him for attacking me?" the strong prisoner snarled.

The guard scolded at him. "I think the man's already been punished enough."

When Enjolras opened his eyes, he could barely force himself to keep breathing. Pain pulsed through his body with his heartbeat. His ribs were screaming, throbbing, burning. Now it was not just the right side of his ribcage, where Javert had originally broken them, but the left side of his ribs was either badly bruised or broke now, too. Just breathing hurt. There was a faint ringing that still lingered in his ears, but it seemed to be going away. He could still not see right. The world around his was blurry and swam in and out of focus.

Enjolras sat up and the pain became so bad that he almost fell over again. He sat there for a moment, struggling to breath through the pain. His left eye was almost swollen shut. It took in a moment before he noticed the blood running out of his nose and wiped it on his sleeve.

Enjolras turned his head and looked around the prison around him. None of the men seemed to be paying him any attention. Then, his eyes fell upon a dark corner of the room where three prisoners were sitting, their eyes cutting across the room and penetrating straight into him. The man in the center of this trio had a broken nose.

Enjolras looked down at the tag that was attached to this man's chains. He stared at it for a long moment, trying to read it. His vision was so blurry that the numbers on this man's tag jumbled together and he could not make them out. Enjolras raised his eyes to look into this prisoner's. They were staring into him, hungering for revenge, thirsting for blood.

Enjolras turned away and struggled to get to his feet. When he stood up, the world around him began to blurry that he was afraid he might pass out again. But he did not. Enjolras weakly moved his legs forward and started walking across the cell, trying not to limp too terribly. Every step was agony. When he finally reached the little corner where he always hid from the other, his legs gave out from under him and collapsed to the floor. A few seconds later, he threw up. He was glad that was out of the view of the other three prisoners and that they could not see him now. He was in so much pain.

Enjolras closed his eyes, wincing, trying not to moan in pain. He leaned back against the wall and let out the heavy breath that a man releases after a long day of suffering has ended and he is finally about to go to sleep. The urge to fall unconscious and escape the pain, combined with fatigue, weakness, and pain, closed in on Enjolras and in seconds, he was asleep.

It seemed like only seconds later when a terrible pain jerked him awake again. He opened his eyes to find the same three prisoners upon him, one of them nearly on top of him. Enjolras tried to get away, but again, he was too weak. So, the men hurt him again, beating him, devouring him, destroying him, defeating him.

After that night, Enjolras did not sleep. He sat in his corner, leaning against the wall, his head resting against the stone, sometimes allowing his eyes to close and his mind to wonder in vague world semi-consciousness. But at every noise, every movement around him, Enjolras jerked awake again. His rests were fitful and constantly interrupted. He never slept. He was never safe to sleep. So Enjolras never slept.

It came one day when Enjolras was sitting in his corner, his eyes closed, not sleeping, but allowing his mind to rest. This one moment would change the rest of his life for as long as he would have to endure it. Enjolras was sitting there silently, keeping out of the way and knowing of all of the other prisoners. The only movement of his body was the slow rising and falling of his chest as he breathed. Enjolras was allowing his mind to wander back to the days before the revolution when his life had not yet been shattered, when he was not in prison, when his friends were not dead.

Enjolras suddenly felt something brush against his side. The light touch sent terrible pain shoot through his broken ribs and sent his mind snapping into full alertness as his eyes abruptly opened.

"Sorry, I didn't know you were there," a young voice muttered so quietly that Enjolras could barely hear it. When he opened his eyes, he saw a child, a tiny little child, short in height, and skinny in starvation, hurried to get away from him. Enjolras knew the boy at once. It was the same little child that he had been getting beaten by the other three prisoners when Enjolras had intervened to make them stop, sacrificing his own body in order to do so.

"Wait, boy." Enjolras heard the words escape his lips, before he knew why he had spoken them.

The boy paused, and looked over his shoulder. By the way he was perched on his toes, turned so that at any moment he could run, it was obvious that he was still considering taking off. He looked back at Enjolras, stared at him for a moment, and a look of reorganization came into his face. He remembered the man who had saved him from those three scary prisoners.

Enjolras looked at the boys face. It was young and afraid. Just one look at him, and it was as if Enjolras could see countless years of pain and misery written all over his face. This boy was so sad. There was no long left in his life. There was no one he loved. There was no one who loved him.

There were bruises all over the left side of his face, where the prisoner's fist had pounded him several times. The boys head, was shaved, like all the other prisoners, and there was a scabbed over wound on the back of top of the child head. Dark shadows hug under the boys eyes and his cheeks were hallowed out from starvation. There was a chain around his neck, but it was not as large as the chains of the other prisoners. The tag on the boy's change read number 012.

The first thing Enjolras noticed about this boy was his eyes. He had bright blue eyes that were the color of the sky, which remained him of Grantaire's. When Enjolras looked at this poor child's face, his heart began to throb.

"You don't have to leave, boy," Enjolras said quietly. He slid over, making space from the child. "There is plenty of room here for both of us."

The boy did not answer. He looked doubtfully down at Enjolras for a long moment, not sure if he could trust him, as if the words he had spoken were too good to be true. No one, in all the years that he had been in this jail, had ever shown this boy any kindness. But then, the boy remembered that day when he was getting attacked by the other three prisoners and this prisoner had stepped in to help him. None of the other prisoners ever tried to help him. He decided that he could trust this man who saved him.

The boy slowly took a step towards Enjolras, as if expecting him to jump up and attack him when he got close enough. But Enjolras did not such thing. He took a few more steps. Enjolras still did not move. At last, the boy sat down in the corner beside Enjolras, observing him carefully with his bright blue eyes.

As Enjolras looked back at this child, he saw everything in the boy's eyes. Fear, sadness, loneliness, heartache, youth, innocence. What had this poor little child done to be thrown in such a terrible jail?

"Are you alright?" Enjolras finally asked the boy, breaking the silence between them. "Those men were hurting you."

The boy, never taking his eyes off Enjolras, nodded. "Yes, I'll be alright," the boy told him. After a brief moment, the boy added, "Thank you for helping me a few days ago."

As these two prisoners spoke to each other, their voices were cold and feeling-less, lacking any emotion, any life. It was as if two bodies had been dragged through long, terrible serious of trials and sufferings that had not killed the bodies, as human bodies are designed to ender and grow harder through agony and pain, but had killed the souls. Now, these two creatures were doomed to keep moving on in this world of the living, but never to really live at all.

"Any decent person would have done the same," Enjolras's dead voice said. "Those men had not right to hurt you."

For the first time, the boy looked away from Enjolras, dropping his eyes to stare at the floor. "These men always hurt me…" he whispered.

Enjolras stared at the child, his heart aching. This poor child. This poor innocent little boy. _God, why have you let this happen to him?_ Enjolras asked Him. He did not know what to say to this child.

The boy looked up to meet Enjolras's eyes. "You saved me, but then those men started hurting you instead…"

"I'm alright," Enjolras told him.

The boy frowned at Enjolras. "No you're not," he said quietly. "I've been in this place for a long time and I've seen a lot of things…" the boy's voice trailed off, and Enjolras could only imagine the images that were going through his head. Finally the boy, as if suddenly awakening form a dream, looked up into Enjolras's eyes. "What happened to you anyway?" he asked Enjolras. "I saw you when that black-coat man first brought you here and you were bleeding." He looked down at the wounds that were revealed on Enjolras's face, neck, and chest. "Most of the men aren't like that when the black-coats bring them in. What did they do to you?"

"I don't not get along very well with one of the inspectors."

The boy's eyes widened. "You talked back to an inspector?!" he gasped in disbelieve and in awe. "That's crazy!"

"My friends always told me that I was reckless."

The boy raised his head a little higher and looked at Enjolras, deep thought visible on his face, as if he were trying to figure Enjolras out. "Most of the men in this place are angry and mean," the boy said at last. He carefully looked at Enjolras for another moment, narrowing his blue eyes as he studied him. Then, at last, after much careful thought, as young children always give to the most simple things, that older people do not stop to even worry about because their minds do not see beauty like those of the innocent little children, the boy declared, "But you're not like the rest of these men. You don't look like you are…"

"Really? And why is that?"

"Because you don't have a long, ugly beard or a big, scary face."

For the first time that he could remember in what seemed like a long black eternity, a small smile spread across Enjolras's lips, as he looked at this precious little child.

"What's your name?" Enjolras asked the child.

"Luc," the boy answered at once. Then, he asked, "What's your name?"

"Enjolras."

"Enjolras?" the boy repeated. He seemed to be considering it, again, giving this very careful thought. "I like that name," he decided, at last. "It sounds like a leader."

As Enjolras looked at this little boy, watched him speak these sweet innocent words, Enjolras could feel something stirring inside of his heart and soul. Something that he had not felt for so long that he had forgotten how it felt. Or what it was. What was this he was feeling? For a moment, he was not sure himself. But he thought it might have been hope. Happiness? Love?

"Thanks," Enjolras said. "I like your name. It also sounds brave."

The boy, Luc, disagreed. He looked down at the stone below him. "No it doesn't."

Enjolras did not answer for a moment. Then, changing the topic, he asked the boy "How old are you?"

"I don't know," the little boy, Luc, answered, looking back up to meet Enjolras's eyes. "When they first brought me to this place I was six, but that seems like it was ages ago. I'm surprised that I'm not a grown up by now…" His voice trailed off and he stared silently at the stone wall for a long moment, lost in thought.

As Enjolras looked at this little child, he felt a terrible aching pain, sadness, sorrow, and pity in his heart. Everything about this child, his face, his eyes, the scares and bruises on his body, were evidence of the misery of his life. There are countless, hundreds, thousands of people in suffering everyday. The suffering of those who are starving, of those who are homeless, of those who know not the grace of love, the suffering of the slaves in bondage, of the women bound by the chains of men, of the mothers who cannot feed their starving children, of the people who have lost their friends or family, of those in torture or in pain. But there is one type of misery that is far more terrible and far more to be scorned than all others. It is the misery of a childhood.

A should know the protection of his father, the love of his mother, the companionship of his siblings, friendship of his friends. His life should be filled with love, joy, happiness, and hope, with the carefree whims of childhood and the fantasy dreams of the future. He should never have to know pain, suffering, cold, hunger, loneliness, evil, or the darkness of this cruel world. But some children of deprived of the life that someone so young alt to have, and are thrown into a dark horror that no man should ever have to endure.

"How old are you?" the little boy, Luc, finally asked, coming out of his concentrated thought.

"Twenty-two," Enjolras told him.

A vague look of surprise passed over this child's cold face. "Really, you're that old? I knew you were much bigger than I am, but didn't think you were really that old yet. All of the old people are mean to me."

Enjolras's heart throbbed again. Luc dropped his gaze back to the stone ground and he remained that way for a long time, curled up against the wall, his eyes down cast, so that he almost appeared to be asleep. But if one bowed his head to look at the boy's face, he would have seen that the child's eyes were open and his face was frozen in a deep look of concentration.

The boy stayed like this for so long that, eventually, Enjolras leaned his head back against the stone and closed his eyes. A few minutes went past before Enjolras heard the child's low, sad voice again.

"Can I ask you something?"

Enjolras opened his eyes and found that the little boy's big blue eyes were set fixedly on him, steady and unwavering.

"Yes?"

"I have a question for you," Luc told him. He paused for a moment until he was sure that he had Enjolras's attention. "All the men in this place are supposed to be bad people," the child informed him. "All of the men that I have ever seen here have been very bad. I know why they are here. They are bad."

Enjolras did not say anything, which, because he did not object, was good enough to show that he agreed with this statement. So, Luc proceeded to tell Enjolras what was wrong with this statement was.

"The problem is, you don't seem like a bad person."

Enjolras did not respond. He just looked back into this child's eyes. Just like the eyes of all the prisoners, they were cold and sad. But there was still life left in them. There was still that young innocence of childhood. This child's soul had still not completely withered away.

For a long time, the little boy just stared at Enjolras, as if trying to understand him, trying to decide what made him worthy to be in this place where only bad people were supposed to be. Then, he slowly opened his lips and spoke. "Why did they bring you here? What did you do?"

Enjolras stared at the child a moment, not speaking. Then, he answered. "I led a revolution against the government."

Luc looked at him uncomprehendingly. "What's that mean?"

"It means…" Enjolras thought for a moment, trying to put things so that this little boy would understand. "…I tried to get rid of the king, so that the people would not have to listen to him anymore."

The child's eyes widened. "You tried to beat the king?" he mused. Then, excitement, hope, joy in his voice, he eagerly asked Enjolras, "Did you win?!"

Enjolras slowly shook his head. "No."

"Oh…" A deep look of disappointment fell over the boy's face. For just a moment, there had been a warm light of hope in this child's eyes, but now it faded away and, again, begging dark and sad. Luc dropped his eyes back down to the floor again. At last he looked back up at Enjolras and said quietly, "So that's why they made you come here?"

Enjolras nodded.

Luc frowned at him, obviously troubled by something that he was trying to figure out. When he could not find an answer, he asked Enjolras. "Why haven't any of your friends come to get you out? Are they just going to leave you here?"

Enjolras's eyes fell away from the child and he let out a quiet sigh. "My friends are not here anymore."

"Where are they, then?"

Enjolras raised his gaze and looked into the child's eyes. "They're with God…"

A knowing look came over the boy's face. He understood. He understood tragedy. "Oh," he said quietly, looking away.

After a long silence, he looked back up at Enjolras. "You're not a bad person," he told Enjolras. You shouldn't have to be here. Everyone in this place is bad. But you're good."

Enjolras looked sadly at the little boy. "Well… not everyone here is bad," he told the child. "Some people are here just because…" But Enjolras did not know what to say. "…well, just because it was a mistake." Enjolras nodded to the child. "Like, you. You're not a bad person, either. You don't deserve to be here—"

Enjolras had barely spoken these words when Luc looked hastily away from him and objected, "That's not true."

Enjolras suddenly frowned at the boy. "What do you mean?"

The child did not look up. "I'm not a good person. I'm a bad person."

"What?!" Enjolras cried out in protest. "No, you are most certainly not! Who told you that?" Enjolras questions, already sure that it was either the guards at the prison or the other prisoners, intensifying his hatred towards them.

But the child shook his head again. "No one told me that. I just know that I'm bad."

Enjolras shook his head again in refusal. "That's not true. You are not a bad person. You are a very good person—"

"How do you know that?"

The boy looked up and looked into his eyes, and Enjolras suddenly felt that he was no longer looking at the same little child. It seemed that now, instead, he looked into a face of a man the same age as his own, or maybe even older than him.

"How do you know that I'm not a bad person?" the boy questioned Enjolras again. "You don't know who I am. You don't know what I've done."

The boy dropped his head again, so that Enjolras could not longer see his face. Enjolras stared at this child for a long moment, a cold chill in his blood. He sat there silently for a moment, not sure what to say. He was not sure if he should say anything. But at last, he reluctantly asked the child in a very soft, hesitant voice, "What did you do…?"

The boy did not answer. For a moment, he did not even acknowledge that he had heard Enjolras. Then, at last, without even raising his eyes, he told Enjolras. "I killed some one."

Enjolras did not know what to say. He said nothing.

The boy looked up at Enjolras. His eyes were now so flooded with sadness and regret. "See?" the child said softly. "Now, you know that I'm a bad person."

"I never said that," Enjolras's dull, emotionless voice spoke.

"You were thinking it," the child whispered, looking away again. "It's okay. It's true."

"I was not thinking that."

Luc suddenly brought his head up and looked straight into Enjolras's eyes. "I killed some one. How do you not know that I am a bad person?"

Enjolras did not answer.

The boy dropped his head again. For a moment, he sat there, not speaking, not moving. Then, the child's low sad voice began to whisper soft words, and Enjolras listened.

"One day when I woke up, there was a man was hurting my mommy… He was hurting her… He trapped her in a corner and would not let her up… I started crying and told him to let her go, but he wouldn't… I kept yelling at him to let he go, and he kept yelling at me to shut my mouth, and Mommy kept yelling at me to run and hide… I didn't know what to do…"

Luc's voice trailed off and he was silent for a moment before he continued. He glanced up at Enjolras, and Enjolras saw that there were tears in the little boy's eyes. The boy opened his lips and spoke in a low voice that did not sound like it should belong to a child so young.

"There was a knife on the table. Mommy used it to cut up my food at dinner… It was still sitting on the table… I saw it and I took it. I told the man to let go of Mommy, but he still wouldn't…"

The child's voice went so low that Enjolras could barely hear him.

"…So, I killed him…"

The child bowed his head again, looking down at the floor. Enjolras stared at the child for a long time. It took him several moments until he realized that his body had frozen as if it had turned into stone, that his heart was hammering in his chest, that he was barely breathing…

"That's not right!" Enjolras finally blurted out. "You should not be here because of that! You were only trying to protect your mother! Luc, that was not a bad thing that you did! You were only trying to help your mom! You should not be in this prison just because of that!"

Luc slightly raised his head so that he could peer up at Enjolras with dark eyes. "After I killed that man," the child whispered, "I went over to my mommy and told to get up… But she wouldn't get up, she wouldn't open her eyes, she wouldn't move, she wouldn't wake up…"

Enjolras felt an icy wind rush through his body, trembling through his veins, causing his entrails to freeze.

He watched as the tears the filled Luc's eyes finally spilled over and began to run down his face, staining his cheeks. The boy opened his lips and finished his story. "When the police found me at my house, they said I killed her too…"

The child looked away and buried his face in his arms.

"But that's not true!" Enjolras cried out in outrage. Fire was burning inside of him, the same way it always burned when he saw injustice. It burned ever fiercer because injustice was abusing this poor little child. "Didn't you tell them the true story?!"

"No one would listen to me," Luc muttered from within his arms, which his face was hidden in. "Besides," he added after a moment, "I killed someone. I'm bad. I deserve to be here…"

"No you don't!" Enjolras firmly to the boy. Luc did not reply. "Luc, look at me," Enjolras ordered. After a long moment, the child slowly raised his head to meet Enjolras's eyes. "You are not a bad person," Enjolras told him, looking straight into the child's eyes. "You were trying to save your mother. You did a good thing. That was very brave of you…"

Luc shook his head. "I killed some one…" he whispered again. "And now, Jesus is mad at me…"

"No He is not!" Enjolras said at once, aghast and outraged. "Luc, look at me," he said again to get the child to meet his eyes. "Jesus is not mad at you," Enjolras told him, very sternly, very convincingly, very reassuringly. "He loves you. He is not mad at you. He is proud of you."

Luc shook his head again. Tears were streaming down the little boy's face. "If He is not mad at me, then why did He make me stay in this place for so long?"

Enjolras felt his heart darken. He did not know what to say to this little crying child before him. He did not have an answer. This was the same question that Enjolras had been asking God ever since he had been taken to this prison…

After a long moment, the child raised his head and looked into Enjolras's eyes. His face was so full of sadness that it seemed to spill out of the child and pour into Enjolras, filling him, as well. "I'm scare," he whispered. "Ever since I they brought me to this place, I've been scared. I don't like it here… I want to go home… I want to see my mommy, again." Luc dropped his head and looked away from Enjolras as the tears streamed down his face.

All the pain, all the torment, all the torture that Enjolras had been through, he was not sure that any of it was worse than this. Than watching this poor, innocent child sit before him and cry about something that Enjolras could not change or do anything about…

Enjolras did not know what to say. He wanted to comfort the child, but he did not know how. For a moment, he just sat there, helplessly watching the boy cry. Every tear that fell down Luc's sweet face was like a dagger in Enjolras's heart.

"Hey… Luc…" Enjolras finally whispered. He scooted closer to the boy, and he gently laid his hand on his shoulder.

Luc raised his eyes to look up into Enjolras's face. There was that longing need in his eyes. That need for help. That need for compassion. That need for love. That need for a friend. Or for a father…

"It's alright," Enjolras said quietly to the child. "I'll be alright."

Luc shook his head and buried his face in his hands. "No it won't… I'm all alone now…" he choked out from between sobs. "I don't have anyone to be with…"

"Look, Luc," Enjolras began, trying desperately to comfort the little boy. Luc raised his teary eyes to look at Enjolras. "I'm going to say with you. I'm going to take care of you. I won't let those men get near you again…" Enjolras promised the little boy.

Luc stared up into Enjolras's dark blue eyes, and tried to decide if he could trust this man.

"I promise you that Jesus is not mad at you," Enjolras told Luc. "I promise you that you will see your mommy again… The same day that you will see her again, you will also get to meet Jesus. …And I promise you that they will both be very, _very_ proud of you…"

Luc just stared up into Enjolras's eyes for a very long time, gazing into his eyes as he tried to decide if he could risk trusting this man with his heart. He had once let his mother keep his heart, but she had left, and she had broken it. But he had loved her… And he still loved her… He thought with careful consideration. He was thinking to decide if, maybe, he could try loving again…

"How do know?" Luc finally whispered.

Enjolras looked into the child's eyes. "I know. You just have to trust me… Trust me."

Luc looked into the deep blue eyes and he felt that he was gazing down into the depths of the ocean or up into the night sky, looking beyond the stars and into the Heavens.

He moved his eyes and saw the bruises on Enjolras's face. The swelling had gone considerably down, but his left eye was still blackened. The cut on his lip and chin was still red and open. There were still bruises across his cheek and around his nose. These were all blows that he had taken in place of Luc receiving him.

Luc had already decided that he could trust this man with his mind. Now, he just had to decide if he could also trust this man with his heart…

Apparently, he decided that he could, because a few minutes later, the little child was curled up next to Enjolras, nuzzled against his body. This was the first time since his mothered died that he had felt the warmth of another person's body against his own. The child laid his head on Enjolras's chest and closed his eyes, and, in only a few minutes, he was lulled to sleep by sound of the steady beating of Enjolras's heart.


	14. Chapter XIV

Chapter XIV

Grantaire was bleeding. Monsieur Fauchelevant was right. His wound was starting to get infected. And now it was starting to get worse.

As soon as they had left Monsieur Fauchelevant's house, he and Marius had gone back to Marius's grandfather's mansion and decided that they would stay there, since it was a gamble that neither of them could risk to go back to their own homes.

Marius's grandfather, Monsieur Gillenormand, had gladly welcomed the boys in, absolutely delighted to see Marius visiting with his friends again. Lost in his joy, he buzzed around the house, like a maid, bringing the boys any comforts he could think of, food, tea, cakes—despite that Marius and Grantaire had both turned down his several offers. Monsieur Gillenormand did not notice the distressed look upon Marius's face, or the blood on Grantaire's clothes, or the graveness in their voices as they sat alone in a dark corner and, in hushed tones, whispered of their plans for the following day at dusk.

That was over two weeks ago.

Everyday, starting from the next evening at sunset, Grantaire and Marius had gone to the prison and attempted to get in, but with no luck. They had gone around the side of the jail, like Monsieur Fauchelevant had instructed. The wall was lowering on this side, like he had told them, but it took Grantaire and Marius less than a second to decide that there was no way any man would be able to scale this wall without a rope. "That's going to be hard to climb with a rope!" Grantaire muttered unhappily, and he began to wonder how much faith he should put in Monsieur Fauchelevant's words.

So, Marius and Grantaire returned to their houses and dug through all of their belongings in search of a suitable rope. Grantaire finally found one buried in the back of his closet, though he could not remember where he had gotten it or why he had bother to keep it. Then, he went to Marius's house to meet him, but he was not there. After a brief searched of the streets, Grantaire found him at the market. By this time, the sun had already disappeared behind the buildings of Paris, and was sinking lower over the earth. Upon returning to the prison, they found that they were too late. The prisoners had already been brought inside and the doors had been locked.

They tried again the next day, arriving before sunset so that they could wait for the opportune moment. There was a small pub across the street from the prison, where they waited. They stood outside of the place, crossed their arms, spoke to each other about random irrelevant things, leaned against the wall of the pub, tried to look natural, and tried not to let anyone notice that they were always watching the guards that patrolled the top of the prison.

Just as the sun was setting and vanishing over the edge of the sea, the inspectors that stood along the wall began to disappear as they went down to the galleys to round up the prisoners. Grantaire and Marius heard the whistle blow. The doors were open and the prisoners began to go inside.

The guard that stood at the top of the wall, right where Grantaire and Marius had planned on attaching the rope and climbing over, did not leave, however, until several minutes later. Grantaire and Marius then waited for a few more minutes before they approached the wall of the prison, care, fully searched the walls and the streets to make sure that they were not being watched, and then swung the rope up over the ridge of the wall, pulled the other side down so that they had both ends in their hands, and then attempted to climb over.

Grantaire went first, as Marius kept watch. It was difficult for him to climb the wall, as it would have been difficult for anyone, but it was even harder for Grantaire. In order to climb a wall so steep, one had to engage every muscle in his body. There was a specific science to the type of agility and strength that was required to perform such tasks. Many of the convicts that had been in these prisons for so many years had become experts on this type of science, for it was the only thing that possessed their minds as they stared day and night at these stone walls. They thought of nothing but escape. And so, they learned to make a means of escape out of what was meant to be a means of imprisonment. They were able to contract their strong muscles in the same way as the small forest animals do, which allows them to scurry straight up the trunk of a tree. They learned to find a foothold out of a stone that, to the eye, barely even seemed to come forward. They learned to climb up the slope of a wall that, to the eye, barely even seemed to be slanted.

There was once a prisoner who had excelled in this talent, greatly surpassing all of his comrades in strength, agility, and successful escapes over the prison walls. This man had managed to escape over the prison walls four times in his years in prison. These four times, the man had be found and brought back into the prison to taste the punishment of his actions, the lash, the chain, the cell. His sentence had started off as five years, but, for every escape attempt, had been extended. The man served a total of nineteen years in prison. Then he was released on parole and disappeared.

There were some convicts in that prison who could still remember this man. Rumor spread amongst the convicts, whispered in the low, deep voices of a body with a dying soul, that this prisoner was still out there and was still on the run. That this man had managed to outwit the authorities. That they were still after him, but that they had never been able to catch him. For some of the prisoner, this brought envy and hatred into their souls. But for the most of them, it ignited a faint spark of hope, and pride even in their dark souls. For the police, and the law, and the merciless system, which was called justice, were not, despite what the leaders desperately tried to prove to the world, were not impossible to defy. This prisoner had defied them. And not only had he defied them, but he had also defeated them. This man was the only hope and the only pride to the others who were left behind within the stone walls of which this man had escaped. To them, this man was symbol, a legend, a leader. This man's number was 24601. And his name was Jean Valjean.

Grantaire had not the knowledge, the strength, the agility, or the experience of these convicts. Any ordinary man would have struggled to climb the wall, and many of them would have failed. But it was worse for Grantaire. Every time the muscles in his stomach, back, or legs flexed, all of which was required to climb the wall, terrible pain stabbed him in his side and he felt that the was being shot all over again. He pushed he pain out of his mind by, instead, focusing his utter attention on Enjolras, and the knowledge that he was waiting for him, just over these walls. He kept climbing anyway, making slow progress.

Just when he was finally nearing the top of the wall, Marius let out a terrified warning cry. Grantaire released the rope and dropped back down to the ground. Just at this moment, a guard had appeared, walking along the top of the wall and was quickly approaching the place where Grantaire and Marius were trying to break in. The guard had not seemed to have stopped them yet, but if they did not hurry, it would not be long before he did. Marius yanked the rope down and the two quickly fled, not bothering to look back to see who was watching them.

The next day they returned and did the same thing, waiting by outside the pub until the whistle blew and the doors were open. The guard at the top of the wall waited a few minutes again before he departed. Then they made another attempt. This time, Marius tried to climb the rope, with success even less than Grantaire had made the day before. Marius was also injured. He had been shot in the shoulder during the revolution. His wound had been better repaired, better cared for, and was now better healed than Grantaire's wound was, but the arms were greatly needed in pulling one's self up the rope, and it was nearly impossible for his shoulder to bare the weight of his body. He had just barely made it halfway up the rope when Grantaire saw a guard appear on top of the wall, walking in the same path and direction as the day before, and alerted Marius. This day was also unsuccessful.

Marius and Grantaire returned every night at the same time and tried to get in. Every night, they had failed. After the first few days, they began to notice some recurrences. They began to take careful observation and consideration about every possible detail that they could manage and they developed a strict time schedule that would allow them to get in… if getting in was possible.

Firstly, the whistle blew at sundown, which was always between 9:49 and 9:53. Secondly, the guard that stood over the wall would remain there for about three minutes before he went down to help get the prisoners inside. Finally, Grantaire and Marius had an average of 124 seconds to climb the rope and get over the wall before the second guard appeared, walking across the top of the wall.

After this, they would have to get over the wall and find away into the prison, while remaining unseen. That would be a huge challenge and a huge gamble, since they had not the slightest inkling of what awaited them on the other side of the wall. Inspectors and guards would be there, of course. But would their backs be to them, or would their faces? Would they be carrying clubs, or would it be guns? There was no way that they could guess. They would only have to take their chances, and run the risk for the sake of their friend. Grantaire hoped, and Marius prayed.

The two young conspirators had scarcely developed this systematic plan when they ran into new complications. One night when they were waiting by the pub, a young prison guard had noticed them standing their and began to observe them with suspicious eyes. Grantaire had seen this man first and, wearing a false smile on his face, he whispered his findings to Marius, who instructed not to look. They pretended that they did not notice this man, but, all the while, Grantaire watched him out of the corner of his eye. The man continued to watch them until after the whistle had blow and it was too late to go in. Marius and Grantaire remained there for some time more, so to not look suspicious, and then, finally, departed.

When the returned the next day, this guard saw them again, and grew even more skeptical of their motives. They were forced to leave again. The day after this, Grantaire and Marius went inside the pub, sat at a table beside a window, and watched the prison through the dusty glass. The saw the guard, the young guard who had kept his eyes on them the two previous days, standing at the top of the wall. With him were two inspectors, whom he must have informed of the suspicious behavior of two young men that he had seen hanging about the prison. This night, Grantaire and Marius did not even leave the pub.

The following evening, the guard was there again, but the inspectors were not. They were unable to attempt a break in this night either.

But the night after this, which was only a few hours prior to where Grantaire was now, the guard was no where to be seen and they made another attempt. As Marius kept watch, Grantaire tried to scale the wall, but about halfway up, he had slipped and his wounded side slammed hard against the stone wall. Dazed by the pain, he slid slowly back down the rope and by this time, time was gone. Again, they had failed.

Now, Grantaire was in the little room that Monsieur Gillenormand had allowed him to stay for the last few weeks. Marius and Monsieur Gillenormand were upstairs in their bedrooms. They were probably already asleep. For a long time after they were in their bed, Grantaire lay awake, lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling above him, his hand pressed against his wound to try to keep blood from dripping on the crisp white sheets of the bed.

His room was dark, but he could still see by the dim light of the outside lamps that fell through the window on the wall opposite of his bed. The shutters of the window were thrown open so that the cool breeze of the night fell through it, drifting through the room and to the place where Grantaire lay silently on his bed.

It was the fifth of June, 1832 when Enjolras had gone to General Lamarque's funeral. Marius, Combeferre, Courfeyrac… even little Gavroche had gone with him, but Grantaire had stayed behind at the café. He was sitting on a chair near the door of the café, the young servant girl who worked there sitting on his lap, and a large bottle of wine in his hand, when he heard a sudden commotion on the streets, and Marius had rushed through the door to alert him that the rebellion, after all of this talk, conspiracy, and planning, had finally begun.

Grantaire got up and helped them build the barricade in front of the café. Then, he stayed with them through the first battle. He did not do any fighting himself, but he had watched, one by one, as each of his friends fell dead, knowing that it was only a matter of time before he would be dead, too. That night after the second battle, Grantaire could take it no more and he tried to drink himself away from all of this terror and all of this tragedy. Enjolras yelled at him.

But Grantaire had succeeded in trusting the alcohol to deliver himself from this horror. For, he drank himself senseless and into unconsciousness. The next day he woke up in the midst of a bloody battle field. Dead bodies were scattered all around him. Blood flowed down the pavement like rivers. Smoke filled the sky. There was no one in the streets save for him and the bodies of the dead.

Grantaire panicked. He knew that all of his friends were dead, but he had survived. He knew that he had been left behind to live in sorrow and in guilt. To spend each night weeping over a bottle, and each morning waking up with terrible pain from hangover in his head, and terrible pain from sorrow in his heart. Then, he heard a round of guns go off in the café.

At once, he got to his feet and hurried into it. He saw the line of his dead friends lying side by side on the floor of the café. He stopped for a moment to stare at them. Then he heard heavy boots moving around upstairs and he ran up the stairs and into the room where he and his friends always met to debate the topic of revolution. That was when he had seen Enjolras.

Enjolras. It was the sixth of June when he had been taken captive by Javert. It was the tenth of June when Grantaire had found Marius alive in the café. Now, it was the second of July. Enjolras had been in prison for almost an entire month. There was no telling what had become of him in that time. For all Grantaire knew, Enjolras might have already been dead. But he would continue to fight to free him until either Enjolras was free, or until Grantaire had joined him in death…

As Grantaire lay on the bed, breathing slow, heavy breaths, staring up at the ceiling, as he felt the cool breeze from outside brushing against his body, he felt blood soaking through his shirt and sticking to his hand. He was in pain. He had been constantly in pain ever since he woke up from being shot, and his actions since then had only made it worse. After today, when he hit it again against the stone wall, he had not been able to get his wound to stop bleeding.

On his way back to Monsieur Gillenormand's mansion, Grantaire made a quick trip to his house and put on his black coat, intentionally choosing the black coat so that it would be harder to notice once the blood started seeping through it. Marius was already stressed out enough as it was, and the sight of blood seemed to make him panic. Grantaire could not blame him. Marius never used to care when he saw blood. But now it took him back to the horrors that he had seen. It took him back to the barricade…

Grantaire sat up and got out of bed. He painfully managed to get his shirt off, but then he looked down and realized that he had not managed to do this without some of his blood dripping out onto the floor. He swore under his breath, painfully bent over, and used his shirt to wipe it up. Then, he sat on the edge of his bed, staring down at the wound on his hip and watched as dark liquid continued to seep out from between the thick black stitches.

He ripped a long strip of fabric off the bottom of his shirt, folded it over onto itself several times, and pressed it against his wound. Grantaire felt pain shoot through him, starting in his wound, cutting up his side and through his body, his stomach, his back, his leg, through his flesh, his muscles, his intestines, and his bones. He found himself wincing, cringing and struggling to hold back soft whimpers of pain. It took all of his will not to immediately yank the fabric off of his wound. He left it there. He needed to get this to stop bleeding.

Barely a few minutes later, Grantaire felt that the fabric pressed against his wound was completely soaked, as if it had been dunked in a bucket of water. He swore again. With much effort, he got to his feet and angrily threw the bloody piece of shirt into the garbage. He raised his eyes to look out through the open window. It was still very dark outside, as an hour late during the night, but instinct told Grantaire that the sun would being rising in only a few hours. Dropping his eyes away from the window, he tore another long stripe off of his shirt and pressed it against his wound again. He had to sit down on his bed because the pain was too great.

A few minutes later, he was lying on his back, breathing quick, cut-off breaths, his chest rapidly rising in falling, his head thrown back, his face buried in the sheets of his bed, the quiet sounds of pain that escaped through his lips being smothered by the mattress of his bed.

Grantaire felt deep dread fill him, as he wondered how, in just a few hours, he was going to be able to get out of bed, walk around Paris, climb over the stone wall, break into the prison, fight off any guards that might assault him, find Enjolras, and get him out alive.

_I don't think I can do it… _A terrible, awful thought came into Grantaire's head.

At once he dismissed it. _Yes, you can!_ He scolded himself. _You have to! Enjolras could be dying! You have to save him!_

_I'll try…_

_No! That's not good enough! You have to! You can and you will!_

_I will… I don't know how, but somehow I will…_

Grantaire opened his eyes and slowly turned his head, bringing his face out from within the sheets so that he could breathe in deep lungfuls of the fresh air that fell through his window. Breathing heavily, stared up at the ceiling and remaining that way for several hours. He watched as a dim light began to fall through the window, slowly illuminating the room. The sun was rising.

A few hours later, he heard someone stirring upstairs. He weakly sat up and looked down at the fabric pressed against his wound. The white material was stained red. Very carefully, Grantaire pealed it away from his wound. For the time being, the bleeding, though not stopped completely, had slowed down considerably. This was the only good thing. His wound looked terrible.

Bruising covered his side, his hip, and the left side of his stomach, and it was worse since he hit his side again on the wall the previous evening. Grantaire was not concerned about this at all, however. What had him worried was the red swelling of infection that was bursting around his wound. Red elevated lines started at his wound were traveling up his side, across his stomach, down his hip, as if there were long gnarled fingers embedded under his flesh and they were now pushing up on him, reaching across the lining of his insides, trying to break out of him.

Such a thing was terrible and repulsive to look upon. Grantaire did not want to risk Marius seeing it. Marius would freak out. Probably lose his mind and get all hysterical again. Probably refuse to do anything else until Grantaire went to a doctor. _I should go to a doctor,_ Grantaire thought to himself, but he knew that he could not. He would not. He was not going anywhere unless it was the prison and in order to break Enjolras free.

Grantaire took his shirt and carefully, gently, lifted it over his head and onto his body. Despite the strips that he had ripped off of it, the shirt was still long enough to cover him and hide his wound. Good. Grantaire lied back down in the bed and closed his eyes. _I really wish I had a bottle right now… Maybe when Marius gets up we'll go back to the pub… _

Grantaire had not slept all night. He was just starting to drift to sleep when there was a soft knock on his door, waking him back up. He opened his eyes, but did not bother to look up at the door. "Come in."

The door opened and Marius came in. "Grantaire? Are you awake?"

"I am now…"

"Oh, sorry," Marius said quietly. "You can go back to sleep…"

Grantaire shook his head. "No, I was already awake," he told Marius. "I didn't sleep much at all last night, to be honest."

Marius frowned and looked at Grantaire with concern. "Are you okay, Grantaire? You do not look good…"

Grantaire did not feel good, either. But he would not say so to Marius. He forced a smile and tried to sound light hearted. "I'm fine. Just a little tired…"

Marius did not smile. "You're exhausted," he said at last. "You're hurt. You're sick… You really need to see a doctor…"

Grantaire sat up in bed and immediately shook his head. "Marius, you know what I said. I already told you that I'm not going anywhere until Enjolras is free."

Marius began pleading, "I know, Grantaire, but you sick and you need help. Why don't we just—"

"No, Marius!" Grantaire suddenly snapped, taking Marius aback. Grantaire sighed. His face softened, and so did his voice. "Marius, I'm fine… I promise I'll be alright." He gave a small smile, and he could see relief on Marius's face. Marius, for the first time, believed that Grantaire was telling the truth. That Grantaire was really going to be okay.

Grantaire was a good liar.

"Alright," Grantaire said, changing the subject and completely redirecting the conversation. His voice become low and serious, the way these two always spoke whenever they talked about breaking Enjolras out from jail.

Hearing the sound in Grantaire's voice, Marius knew what they were about to discuses. He pulled up a chair next to his bed and sat down, leaning close to him so that they could speak in low voices without being overheard. "We'll try again tonight," Marius said quietly.

Grantaire nodded. "Yes, but this time we have to do more than just try. Tonight, Marius, we have to get in. This has to be it. No more mistakes. No more fails…"

Marius nodded. "You're right," he agreed. "Let's plan it out. Whose going, me or you… or both of us?"

"I'll go," Grantaire said. "There won't be enough time for both of us to climb over the wall, and I can climb it faster than you can."

Marius dropped his eyes away from Grantaire and slowly nodded. For a moment, he did not say anything. Then at last, he drew in a deep breath and looked back up to meet Grantaire's eyes. "But what about… what happens after you get over the wall?"

Grantaire frowned. "What do you mean?"

"What if they catch you?" Marius's voice came out so quietly that it could barely be heard. "How will I even know if they do?"

Grantaire did not answer.

Marius suddenly felt a chill run down his back and spread across his entire body. He thought of Grantaire, sick and injured, climbing over that wall and disappearing. He would just disappear, like a forgotten soul lost and vanishing with the wind. Without a word, with out a sound, without knowing, and without grieving. Just like that, he would be gone and he would be forgotten. Marius would be left alone, with no friends, no hope, no future…

"I'm going with you," Marius suddenly decided.

"You can't," Grantaire objected. "There won't be enough time for us to both climb over."

"Well, there will have to be, because I'm not letting you go without me."

"There's not. We can't go together."

"Then, I'll go," Marius declared.

Grantaire frowned. "I can climb it faster than you can."

"So? I'm stronger than you are."

Grantaire scolded. "I have to disagree."

Marius let out a deep sigh. "Grantaire, can you even get out of bed, right now?!"

"Of course, I can!" Grantaire objected, and he was about to stand up, just to prove a point, but Marius reached out his hand and grabbed Grantaire by the arm to stop him.

"Don't get up," Marius muttered. "Don't do anything unless you have to."

Grantaire looked darkly at Marius. "I'm fine," he muttered. But he did not try to get up. He was relived that he did not have to…

Marius let out a deep sigh. "Grantaire, can't we just go together? That way no one gets left behind, and that way, we'll be able to help each other find Enjolras."

Grantaire did not answer, but, for the first time, he seemed to be considering this.

"It would be better for us both," Marius eagerly went on. "We'll be able to protect each other, and we have a better chance of getting Enjolras out safe if we're together, and if we run into trouble we'll have a better fighting chance, and if… and if we get captured, at least we'll be together…"

Grantaire thought for a moment. "I guess so, but somehow we'll have to both get over the wall in time…"

"We'll just have to go very quickly, and climb over at the same time, one right behind the other."

"That'll make it harder to climb the rope."

"We'll still be able to do it," Marius urged him. "We have to do it."

Grantaire nodded. "Alright, I guess… But we'll have to go quick."

Marius nodded enthusiastically. "We will."

Grantaire nodded. "Okay, then. But if something goes wrong…"

"Nothing will go wrong," Marius assured him.

But Grantaire went on anyway. "If something goes wrong and only one of us can get in… Then, it will be me."

Marius felt his stomach drop. He looked away, finding himself no longer able to look into Grantaire's eyes. He opened his lips and his quiet voice whispered, "But what if you don't come back out?"

Grantaire let out a heavy sigh. This was the bitter, cold, mournful, yet passionate sigh of a man who was surrounding his life for a cause. A man who had found something that was more important to him than his own life.

Grantaire turned his eyes to look out the window. The sky was painted a bright, radiant red in the light of the rising sun. There was blood in the sky. A fait red glow loomed over Paris, reflecting off the buildings, the streets, the rivers. The world was bleeding… Dying…

"Then, when Enjolras dies, I'll be by his side."


	15. Chapter XV

Chapter XV

"I would take it easy on the wine, Grantaire. It will be very unhelpful if you get drunk right now."

"I won't get drunk," Grantaire assured Marius as he took another sip from his bottle.

Marius looked out the window of the pub and watched the sun sink lower over the peaks of the buildings of Paris. The sun was setting right behind the golden cross at the top of the cathedral, bathing it in white light that hit the cross and was reflected off into Paris, making it glow. Marius turned his eyes to look at the prison. The guard was still standing at his post. He would be there for about thirty more minutes, and then Marius and Grantaire would make their final attempt to get in. Marius felt like there were snakes in his stomach, twisting around in his gut. He was afraid.

"Grantaire!" Marius cried in a quiet voice, turning abruptly back to meet his friend's eyes.

"Yes?"

Marius leaned in over the table and whispered, "Once we get in, how do you plan on getting back out?!"

Grantaire frowned. "We'll try the sea, like Monsieur Fauchelevant said. But if we can't get out that way, then we'll just have to improvise… try our luck, take our chances."

Marius looked back out the window, not at all reassured. He stared at the wall of the prison, knowing that in less than half of an hour, he and Grantaire would be putting everything they had in danger as they attempted to climb over it.

"Are you Monsieur Marius?" Marius turned his head. When he saw who was speaking to him, he felt his heart drop into his gut.

A little boy, perhaps ten years old, stood before him. He was small, short and skinny. He was poorly dressed and the clothing that he was wearing was torn, ripped, stained, and dirty. Dirt and ash were smeared across his face, his neck, and his hands. The child had wide brown eyes that, despite the evident fact that this child was so poor, were once full of life, joy, and laughter. Now, they were sad.

Marius knew this child. He did not know his name, or much about him. But he knew that this boy was a friend of Gavroche. He had seen them together sometimes. Gavroche once had an entire little group of friends that always followed him around. Gavroche was the leader and these children were his followers. Gavroche was the crusader and these children were the people that rose up to follow him.

Now, Gavroche was dead. And these little children were left without a leader and with broken hearts.

When Marius saw the boy, it was as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs and he was as a landed fish gasping to breath. Thousands of images flashed through his mind. Gavroche leading his little gang through the streets of Paris, always laughing, always smiling, always singing… This child, this poor little creature that never knew the love or affection of his parents, was happy enough to light up Paris, and shine in the place of the sun on a rainy day. Gavroche standing along side him and the Friends of the ABC as they talked of revolution. Gavroche helping them prepare on the eve of battle. Gavroche staying with them at the barricade, encouraging them, lifting the hearts and spirits of those in doubt, providing the life of the rebellion as the sunshine provides the life of plants, flowers, and everything that is beautiful. Gavroche, brave little Gavroche, bold and unafraid, climbing under the barricade and into the open range of fire to retrieve gunpowder from the fallen soldiers. Even as he did this, he was smiling and laughing. Gavroche getting shot… Courfeyrac sobbing bitterly over Gavroche's body. Gavroche lying dead in the line on the ground beside his sister, Eponine…

"Are you Monsieur Marius?" the child repeated, when Marius did not respond.

Marius stuttered for a moment. "Uh, yes, yes, I am," he finally managed.

"I have a letter here from your grandfather," the boy told him, holding up a folded piece of paper so that Marius could see it.

"From my grandfather?" Marius repeated, a little confused. "Alright, I'll take it. Thank you, boy—"

"Spare a sou, monsieur?" the boy interrupted. He drew the letter away from Marius's hand and held out his own, demanding payment.

Marius felt his stomach contract. He remembered Gavroche doing this same thing… Marius dug his hands into his pockets. He had six sous with him. At once, he drew them out of his pockets and dumped all six of them into the boy's open palm.

When the boy saw them, his eyes widened with surprise and delight, and he looked suddenly back up at Marius, a look on his face that seemed to be wondering if Marius was trying to pull some unfair trick on him. "Six sous, monsieur?!" the child cried out in disbelief. He looked back down at the money in his hand. "Is this all for me, monsieur?"

"Yes," Marius immediately answered. "They are all for you."

The child's face suddenly lit up and Marius saw the same joy in this child's face that was constantly in the face of little Gavroche. "Really, monsieur?! Thank you, monsieur! Thank you so much, monsieur! I don't–—this will buy me dinner for a week…"

Marius could not imagine how small this child's dinner had to have been if five sous would feed him all week. Marius turned his eyes and they met Grantaire's. Just this one glance was enough that Grantaire knew exactly what Marius was asking him.

Grantaire reached into his pocket. He only had two sous left over from the bottle of wine that he had purchased. He took them out. "Here, boy," Grantaire said, holding out the two sous.

The astonished child, as if in a trance, held out his hand and watched two more sous drop into his collection. The boy looked up in amazement. "Really, monsieur?! Thank you so much, monsieur! I really… I don't know what to say, monsieurs!" The child suddenly gasped. "Oh! I forgot! The letter!" He hastily drew out the folded paper and handed it to Marius.

"Thank you, child," Marius said quietly, taking the letter.

"_Thank you,_ monsieur!" the boy cried out again. "And you, monsieur!" he added to Grantaire. "I've never had this much money in my whole life! I don't think I've even _seen _this much money in my whole life!" The little boy stuttered out gratitude for another long minute before he finally departed.

Marius watched the child leave. Even the way the little boy bounced on his heals, almost skipping, as he ran out of the pub was the same as Gavroche…

"Marius, what does the letter say?"

"What?" Marius turned suddenly back to Grantaire, a confused look on his face. "Oh! Right…" Marius looked down at the letter in his hands. He unfolded it and saw that a note, written in his grandfather's flowing handwriting, coved a small passage in the middle of the paper. Just by looking at his words, Marius could tell that his grandfather had written this in a hurry, and had not bothered addressed the letter, nor to leave a signature. Marius looked at the words on the paper and read:

_DO NOT COME HOME! The police showed up at the house just a few minutes ago. They were looking for you. They must have found out. They searched the house for you and I think they are still watching it. Get out of Paris. It is not safe. You have to leave. Do not come home. _

Marius stared down at the passage. He read it again. For the moment, he felt the same dazed shock that he felt after the battle. He felt nothing. Only the hallow emptiness that filled his body, mind, and soul.

"What's it say?" Grantaire asked again. When Marius did not answer, he took the letter from his hand and read it himself. As Grantaire stared down at the words on the page, he cursed aloud so that anyone who was near by heard him. He looked suddenly up at Marius and leaned in over the table. "They know," he whispered. "They know you survived. I think it's Javert…"

"Javert?" Marius repeated uncomprehendingly. "How would Javert know that I'm alive?"

"I'm sure he's been asking Enjolras questions. He must have found out that you are alive, somehow."

Marius stared at Grantaire for a moment. "You think Enjolras told him that I survived?"

Grantaire felt dark feeling within his heart. Enjolras would not have talked. He would not have told Javert anything. Enjolras was strong. "No. He would not have told him… at least, not on purpose. Maybe… he accidently said something…"

Marius shook his head. "Enjolras did not even know that I survived."

Grantaire sighed. "Well, I guess it doesn't matter how Javert found out that you're alive, but he did. And now he's looking for you…"

Marius felt a chill fall over his body. He was lost. He was scared. He scooted his chair in closer to the table, as if trying to get closer to Grantaire. "What do we do?" he whispered desperately to Grantaire.

Grantaire looked away, letting out a deep breath of despair. "I don't know…" He leaned his elbows against the table and buried his face in his hands. He did not know what to do.

Marius stared at him. He watched Grantaire admit that he did not know what to do. He watched him give up… All this time, Grantaire had been so strong, so sure, so determined. It was easy for Marius, because all he had to do was follow Grantaire's lead, the same way he followed Enjolras into battle. But now Grantaire was not leading anymore… Marius was leaderless. And he was terrified.

"But—But—Why… Can't we…We have to…" Marius unintelligently babbled for a moment, before he got out the words, "But, Grantaire, what do we do?! We have to do _something!_"

Grantaire heard the panic in Marius's voice. He raised his head and met Marius's eyes. He drew in a deep breath and let it out. Marius was wrong. Grantaire had not given up. Not even close. He did not know what was going to happen. He did not know if Javert would find them and take them. He did not know if he would be able to save Enjolras. But that was not going to stop him from trying until the end. Until he was dead.

"We break into the prison tonight, just like we planned on doing," Grantaire quietly told Marius.

At these words, a deep short of relief filled Marius. Grantaire was speaking with the same urgency, the same certainty that he always used when he spoke of saving Enjolras. Marius could see that Grantaire had not given up, yet. He could see that he still had someone that he could follow.

"After we find Enjolras," Grantaire continued, "and we break him out of jail, then we all leave Paris. We were going to have to leave anyway, Marius. After we break into the prison and break the leader of the revolution out, the police are going to be after us, anyway. Probably Javert, himself."

Marius nodded, looking straight into Grantaire's eyes. Grantaire's words, to Marius, were like the commands a general gives to a young and afraid soldier. The general is strong and knows what he is doing; the soldier is young and afraid. But with the general telling him what to do, where to go, the soldier becomes the hero of the battle.

Grantaire took a long sip of wine. Then, he let out a deep breath and looked out the window. The sun was almost gone… "Get ready, Marius," Grantaire whispered. "It's almost time…" Both of these men could feel their hearts racing in their chests, their lungs beginning to work faster…

Grantaire turned to look at Marius. "Remember Marius, we only have two minutes to—"

Grantaire's heart stopped. His blood froze. His stomach dropped. The blood drained from his face and his eyes were suddenly filled with terror.

Marius immediately knew that something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. His first thought was that Grantaire's wound had gotten too bad and that he was going to die. But Grantaire did not look like he was in pain. He looked afraid…

"Grantaire, what is it?!" Marius cried, leaning over the table and whispering quietly, but urgently.

"Come on, we gotta go!" Grantaire suddenly jumped up from his seat. With one hand he grabbed Marius by his shirt, and pulled him out of his seat, with the other hand he grabbed the only weapon he could find, a short knife that lied on the table.

"Why?! What's wrong?!" Marius looked over his shoulder. At once, he felt the same horror that Grantaire had felt moments before.

Three men had entered the pub. They were standing by the doorway, their dark, penetrating and hungry eyes searching the place as if they were looking for someone whom they were thirsty to destroy. All three of these men were dressed in dark blue uniforms and tall black hats. They each had a club, a knife, and a gun in their belts. Two of the men Marius did not recognize, but the man who stood in front of the trio, the man who seemed to be the leader of this company, Marius knew at once. It was Javert.

Marius felt his innards turn to ice. He immediately turned away, instinctively trying to hide his face. Grantaire was already pulling him out of the room, farther away from Javert and the other two inspectors. This was a large pub. Several rooms were lined up, one after another, as one moved deeper into the pub. It had three floors. The staircases to get to the floor above were located in the very back of the last room on each floor.

Grantaire hurried through the pub, moving through the chaotic mess of people that were scurrying all about, dragging Marius behind him. They had to get out. Javert was blocking the door, so they would have to find another way. _If there is another way… _ Grantaire kept moving.

They were just reaching the open walkway that led to the next room. So far, it did not seem that Javert had seen them. They hurried past a young woman, almost making her drop the two mugs she had in her hands, and she let out a faint cry of disapproval.

The woman's voice, the hurried movement that he saw out of the corner of his eye, caught his attention and Javert turned his eyes to search that corner of the pub. Just as he looked up, he saw two you men slipping out of the room. Javert knew a guilty man when he saw one. A man who flees at the presence of the police is running from the law. Javert motioned to the two inspectors beside him and started across the pub, following after the two suspicious citizens.

Javert, himself, had heard news of two unfavorable looking citizens, who were seen watching the guards, hanging around the outside of this pub. According to the young guard who had seen these men, they were looking at the prison with a strange concentration in their eyes. "As if they were trying to figure something out," the young guard had told the inspectors.

Javert was not sure what to think of the matter. The two citizens could have been harmless and innocent, just passing time together at the pub. But Javert, who only saw the darkness, the evil, the guilt in men, thought not. These two men could have been anyone. There was a chance that they were planning some ill conceived plot that included the violation of the law.

A few days prior, when a man had appeared to Javert and informed him that there was a man who survived the revolution, Javert immediately asked the man to give him the name. The man told Javert that he would be honored to tell the police this man's name… for the right price. So the man received ten francs, and, in return, Javert had received the name. Marius Pontmercy was alive.

Ever since this moment, since Enjolras had refused to talk to Javert, since he had thrown Enjolras into the cell with the other prisoners as for safe keeping, the inspector went out to find this Marius Pontmercy. A rebel this Pontmercy was, and so he deserved punishment. But Javert knew that this Pontmercy might be able to help him get a step closer to finding Jean Valjean.

After much interrogation of random citizens that he had approached on the streets, Javert had learned the address of the house where Pontmercy's grandfather lived. Javert, accompanied by these two other inspectors, went to the house and demanded the old man to turn over Marius Pontmercy. But the old man had insisted that he had not seen him grandson in months. Javert, utterly unconvinced, searched the house with the other inspectors, but they found no such person.

After they left the house, and Javert was walking down the street like a prowling tiger, his dark eyes constantly searching for anything suspicious, he remembered the report of the two men hanging around the prison at about this time, and he decided to pay a visit to the pub.

Marius hurried after Grantaire, who had still not released a firm grip on his sleeve. They rushed through the next two rooms and into the last room. Grantaire immeditatly located the stairway at the back of the room, and started hurrying towards it, heedlessly pushing past people to get them out of the way.

Grantaire reached the stairway. Tall, step, and built out of old wood, which was covered in a thin layer of dust. At the top of the stairway, there was a dim red glow emitting from the candles that lit the upper room. Grantaire only spared a second to glance up the stairs. Then he quickly turned his head to look once over his shoulder, across the pub, and to the entrance of the room. He suddenly felt the cold blades of death's bitter kiss pierce him in the heart, causing it to stop beating, causing the life to drain from his blood, causing his body to go cold like a corpse. When Grantaire turned his head, he found himself staring straight back into cold and murderous eyes of Javert.

Javert had appeared in the doorway and looked across the room just as Grantaire was looking over his shoulder. Fait, heaven, or hell had planned this so at this moment, they each saw the other, and, at once, they knew each other. Javert recognized Grantaire immediately. Sudden fury twisted his face, turning the face of a prowling tiger into the face of an attacking beast. An enraged monster about to attack.

"Go! Go, go, go!" Grantaire yelled, suddenly pushing Marius forward, up the stairs.

Marius took off, running up the stairs, and Grantaire followed after him, running right behind him. He did not have to look back to know that Javert was charging across the room behind them, chasing after them, pursuing them like a hunger lion. Grantaire could feel him getting closer.

As the reached the top of the stairs, they immediately turned and raced across the next floor. "Move! Get out of the way!" Grantaire ordered as he and Marius crashed through the mass of people that were crowding the pub. Most of the people, startled and scared, hurried to get out of the way, but for the people that did not, Grantaire and Marius pushed them out of the way as the ran past.

Only a few moments after these two had passed by, the startled people watched them run into the next room, and they began to step back into their places, whispering and murmuring to one another, a thunderous clamor could be heard, and it seemed that a charging bull was storming up that stairs. Javert appeared at the top of the stairs, the wild, terrible, murderous look in his dark eyes enough to make chills run down the backs of every man in the room who looked upon his face. Without pausing for even a moment, Javert, followed by the other two inspectors, crashed into the crowed of terrified people. Everyone jumped to get out of their way, as men let out cried of outrage, as women let out shrieks of terror. Javert did not slow down, nor did he acknowledge any of the people or anything that was going on around him. He charged through the pub and into the next room, gaining on the fleeing Grantaire and Marius.

"Upstairs! Quickly!" Grantaire cried as he and Marius reached the last flight of stairs and ran up them. Immediately turning into the next room, Marius kept running, racing through the confused and startled people, pushing them out of the way if they would not move fast enough. They darted through the first three rooms, and into the last room of the pub.

Grantaire's eyes were constantly searching for an escape. Desperately darting around the café, looking for a door, a hiding spot, a window… There! He found a large open window, like the window in the café where the Friends of the ABC used to meet, on the back wall of the last room. It was more of a doorway that lacked a door. It would be easy to get out.

"This way!" Grantaire ordered, grabbing Marius's arm to redirect him towards the window.

Marius saw the window and understood. They both ran straight for it. Marius got there first. He ran at the widow so fast, that he had to hold out his hands and grab the sides of the wall to keep himself from going straight out of it.

Grantaire got there a second later, sliding to a stop so sudden that he hit into Marius. They both looked out the window and felt their hearts sinking as they stared down at the stone pavement three stories below. To jump would be to commit suicide.

Grantaire, grabbing onto the wall for balance, leaned out the window and is eyes immediately began to search the outer walls of the building, looking for any means of escape. A place to hold onto, a foothold, a way to climb down… There was nothing.

He drew back inside the pub and looked over his shoulder just in time to see Javert appear in the doorway. Those fatal eyes pierced him like a knife. Grantaire turned his eyes and spotted a small wooden door hidden in the corner of the room.

"This way!" He grabbed Marius by the arm and yanked him across the room, bringing him to the door. Javert saw what was happening and lunged forward, taking off in a headlong charge across the pub.

Grantaire pushed Marius through the door and immediately went in after him. As he turned around, he saw Javert charging at him from just a few meters away. Grantaire slammed the door shut and drew down the rusted metal latch, locking the door. A moment later, something slammed against the door. It lurched forward, but the lock held… for the time.

Grantaire back away from the door. He raised his eyes and looked around. They were in a large dark room, which was evidently used to store the wine and brandy. Large casks were scattered all around, pilled up on top of each other, all the way to the high ceiling. Thick, splintery ropes that circled over the mountains of casks and came down to attach to the ground held the stacks together, so that the barrels would not fall. The room was so full of them that there was barely room to move down the narrow passages that ran between the cask piles. The entire room was like a dark maze.

"Come on," Grantaire grabbed Marius's shoulder and pulled him forward, and they slipped behind the cover of the barrels. They hurried quickly through the maze, running down the narrow passages, searching desperately for a way out.

"There's no way out…" Marius whispered in panic as the truth began to set in on him. "There's no way out!"

"Keep looking!" Grantaire ordered, as he ran his hand along the wall of the room, searching for any means of exit. A door, a window, a weak spot in the wall that could be broken open…

All this time, they could hear the heavy slamming against the door, as Javert and the inspectors tried to break in. They both knew that the lock would not hold for long.

Grantaire raised his eyes and quickly searched the ceiling, looking for anything, an attack room, a little window… There was nothing. Nothing…

_Bang! _

He heard something slam against the door again. Each time, the sounds seemed to be getting louder, more forceful. This last time, Grantaire could hear, under the thunderous sound of collision, the crack of the wooden door break, yielding. In a matter of seconds, it would be broken…

_BAM! CRACK!_

One more blow and the door broke. The heavy wooden table that Javert and the inspectors had been slamming into the door finally broke threw the old wood, and the room was breached. The door fell forward and Javert stormed into the room, trampling over it.

He stopped for a moment to scan the place with his eyes. His chest was heaving, his face was red and furious, and the wild fury, the lethal hunger in his eyes had only intensified. He looked around the room, took in the highly stacked casks, the narrow passages through the maze, and he looked for Grantaire and Marius. He looked for any sigh of movement, listened for any sound of breathing, felt for any presence of life. But the room seemed to be empty. Had he not seen Grantaire and Marius enter it with his own eyes, he would have thought that no one went in this room save for the ghosts.

Javert stood there for a long moment, as the wild madness slowly faded from him and he regained his composure. But his fury did not wane. "Draw you weapons," Javert commanded the other two inspectors, without looking at them. He drew out his gun and loaded it. "Search the room. We don't leave until these two traitors have been found."

Javert started forward, moving quickly through the maze of casts, his hungry eyes searching ever corner they could find. As he walked, he gripped his gun tightly in his hand, his finger on the trigger. This was the some way he held his same pistol when he shot Grantaire in the café.

Grantaire and Marius could hear his footsteps as he moved through the maze around them. They were sitting on the floor behind a large stack of the casks, their backs pressed against the barrels behind them, their eyes staring at the casks in front of them, their hearts racing in their chests, slamming against their ribs, to the point that Marius began to fear that Javert were hear his wild heartbeat and find them.

Grantaire drew in deep breaths of air, trying to control his breathing and keep himself calm. _Stay, calm. Don't panic,_ he kept telling himself. _There has to be a way out… _ He looked down at the small knife, which he was still grasping in his hand. It was the only weapon that they had, and it had no chance against the guns of the three inspectors.

_We have to get out. We have to get back to the door…_

The three sets of footsteps seemed to be getting slightly softer and Grantaire knew that the inspectors had to be moving to the opposite side of the room. Grantaire carefully got to his feet, went silently to the edge of their hiding place, and risked a quick glance around the edge and down the narrow passageway. There was no one in sight.

He looked back at Marius, who was watching him with huge fearful eyes, and motioned for him to follow. Marius, moving as if in a daze, got to his feet and, never taking his eyes off Grantaire, went to him. Grantaire, unconsciously gripping the knife as tightly as his fist would allow, turned and started down the narrow passage, making each step slow and careful, as not to make a sound.

He could hear Javert and the others walking around the room, their boots hitting against the wooden floor with dull, ominous beats, like the beating of the black heart of a dark and terrible creature that had returned from the dead.

_Which way is out?! _Grantaire was not sure. He thought it was left, but he could not be certain. All he could do was take his chances and trust his luck. He went left. Marius followed close behind.

The footsteps were getting louder, alerting Grantaire that someone was getting closer. He stopped and held his breath, trying to locate from which direction the footsteps were coming… RIGHT! They were coming from the right! In this moment, he realized that whoever was coming, was coming fast, and was coming straight down the very pass that Grantaire and Marius were standing in…

Grantaire suddenly grabbed Marius's arm and pulled him forward, dragging him down the narrow passage. Now, Grantaire was moving as fast as he could manage without his making too much noise. He could hear the footsteps behind him becoming louder and faster. Was this man chasing them? Had he heard them?

Grantaire quickened his pace. Choosing a random direction, he turned a corner and kept going. Looking ahead, Grantaire suddenly knew where he was. The door, the exit, was right around that turn! Excitement burst within him, and he started moving even faster. He was almost there… They were almost free…

Grantaire turned the corner and ran straight into Javert.

"Whoa!" Grantaire threw himself backward, slamming into Marius, who stumbled and hit into the casks behind him.

Javert had expected an escape attempt. So, he had gone back to the exit and stood before it, making any such thing impossible. Now, he turned his head and his dark eyes looked down at Grantaire. Terrible fury burst in Javert's dark eyes when he saw him. This troublesome revolutionary, who Javert had shot himself. Who was supposed to be dead, but was somehow still alive.

Grantaire could almost Javert's gaze cutting through him, penetrating him, piercing through his heart and soul. "Go! Go back!" Grantaire yelled, forcing Marius back. Marius turned and started running the other way, Grantaire following right behind him. But Javert charged after them, remaining right on their heels.

Marius stopped suddenly as a second inspector appeared in the path before them. Grantaire grabbed Marius's arm and pulled him in another direction.

The corner. That was where Grantaire and Marius found themselves a second later. Backed up in the corner, between two walls, with no where to go, no where to hide…

Grantaire turned around just as Javert and the two other inspectors came into view. Grantaire felt his muscles tense. His eyes quickly darted around for an escape, but there was none. They were trapped. He looked back at the advancing Javert. He suddenly stepped forward to stand in front of Marius, trying to protect him, the same way he had tried to protect Enjolras. But he had failed. Javert had taken Enjolras. Grantaire could not let that happen again…

Grantaire thrust his knife out towards Javert, holding it threateningly in front of him, as if it could somehow stand a chance against the strength of Javert's bullet…

Javert raised his gun and aimed it at Grantaire's face. The loath, the hatred, the anger in his eyes was so terrible that Grantaire had no doubt that Javert would not hesitate to pull the trigger.

Javert looked down at the knife in Grantaire's hand as if it were a harmless piece of nothing. He looked back into Grantaire's eyes with terrible, merciless wrath. "Drop the knife, or I'll shoot you, again. And this time, I promise you, you will not survive."

Grantaire did not move. He did not drop the knife.

"Drop it!" Javert roared, taking a step closer.

Grantaire took a small step backward, pushing Marius farther behind him, as well. His eyes frantically made one last attempt to look for an escape. But there was none. They were trapped. Javert had caught them. It was over.


	16. Chapter XVI

Chapter XVI

"Drop the knife," Javert repeated.

Grantaire's eyes moved to rest on Javert. He saw the barrel of the gun staring him in the face. As if in confusion, Grantaire looked down at the knife in his hand. A moment later, he let his arm waver, and then he slowly lowered the knife to let it hang limply by his side.

Javert raised his head, holding it high in a sort of superior authority. He moved his fingers, shifting the position of the gun in his hand. "Drop your weapons and put up your hands. You are both under arrest."

Grantaire hesitated for a moment. His eyes were still searching, still looking for a way out. But he could not let Javert know that. He let out a heavy high sigh and slowly raised his hands over his head. But he did not drop his weapon.

An astonished and horrified Marius watched Grantaire in a sort of dazed shock. Was Grantaire really giving up? Without even a try? With out a fight? Marius, feeling in a trance, followed Grantaire's lead and watched his own hands reluctantly move into the air in a position of surrender.

"I said drop your weapons!" Javert snarled at Grantaire. Grantaire stared back at Javert, a stupid look of incomprehension on his face. Javert scolded. "Drop the knife!"

Grantaire still did not respond. Then, he saw the high stacks of casks that formed the walls all around them. He saw the ropes that held these piles in place… At a last, Grantaire's lips slowly opened. His face remained expressionless. He spoke. "Like hell."

Before Javert had fully taken in that Grantaire was defying him, in one swift movement, Grantaire swung the blade of his knife, bringing it down on the thick rope that was holding together the casks beside him. As rope snapped, Grantaire threw himself at the large stack of barrels, slamming against it with his body.

Javert and the other inspectors, confused and taken off guard, looked up just in time to see the mountain of casks come crashing down, collapsing like an avalanche, caving in over them like a monstrous wave rising over the beach only to slam down on top of it moments later. As they hit the ground, the casks burst open and their contents burst out, exploding in every direction like a volcanic eruption, like the detonation of the wave as it break on the shore.

Marius let out a soft cry of panic, and backed against the wall, using his arms to shelter his head. Javert and the other two inspectors suddenly threw themselves backward, trying to get out of the way as the heavy barrels crashed down around them. Somewhere in the confusion, barely audible over the thunderous sounds of the casks falling over each other and breaking on the ground, Javert's gun fired. But it did not hit its target. Grantaire and Marius were still untouched.

Grantaire knew that this was their only chance. They had a matter of seconds to get away. He immediately seized Marius and forced him out of the corner. "GO! Up! Climb!" Grantaire yelled at Marius, pushing him forward. Marius immediately began to climb over the barricade of broken casks that was forming around them. Grantaire jumped up behind Marius and they quickly clambered over the barrels. Marius slid over the blockade and into narrow passage. Not a second later, Grantaire jumped down behind him.

Javert looked up and realized what was happening. They were getting away! They were going to escape! "AFTER THEM!" Javert bellowed, jumping forward and charging towards the runaways.

"Go! Run!" Grantaire ordered Marius, pushing him forward. He immediately obeyed, taking off and not looking back. Grantaire ran after him, navigating through the narrow, turning passes. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Javert charging after them. He was getting closer.

Grantaire raised the knife and slashed at two more ropes as he ran by. Marius gave a soft cry of alarm and he ducked his head as the casks began to crash down around them, hitting the ground and bursting open, like bombs in a battlefield. Marius slightly slowed his pace, but then Grantaire pushed him, urging him to go faster. He kept moving.

Grantaire looked ahead and could see the door. They were almost there. Grantaire cut one more rope, and a final rain of barrels was unleashed. It seemed that the entire room was caving in. Casks were falling all around them, bursting when the hit the ground. Wine, brandy, beer, rum exploded around them, showering them like the mist that emits from the ocean. Grantaire and Marius kept running. But so did Javert.

He charged through the storm like a reckless, relentless animal. Wild rage fueled him, driving him out of control. He was gaining speed and getting closer, not even acknowledging the ciaos around him. He was not stopping.

Grantaire looked ahead and fixed his eyes on the escape. They were almost there… "Quick, Marius!" he glanced over his shoulder. Javert was charging after them, his eyes burning. He mad. Enraged. Wild. At this rate, it would not be long before Javert had caught them…

Marius got to the door and ran out. Grantaire ran out right behind him.

Terrified people were crowed all around. After Grantaire and Marius, had gone into the room, Javert and the inspectors had broken the door down and charged in after them, the people had gotten up and tried to figure out what was going on. Then they heard the thunderous sounds of the casks collapsing and breaking on the ground. Now, everyone in the room was on their feet, some of them backing towards the exit and some of them daring to peer through the broken doorway.

Marius looked around that the sea of confused faces around him, all of which stared dumbly back at him. Then he looked back at Grantaire, as Grantaire looked through the broken door to see Javert charging towards them. They had to block the door. They had to stop Javert, or they would never get away.

Grantaire's eyes darted around the room. What could he use to block the exit? He had to find something… fast! Then, his eyes fell upon the tall wax candles that sat on the centers of each other tables. He suddenly rushed forward and grabbed three of the candles off the table, and, in the instant, returned to the doorway.

Javert coming. He was practically to the door…

For that one moment, Grantaire looked in at Javert and their eyes met. Both of these men could feel the tension, the fury, the hatred, that burned between them. They were still at war. A war that was not even close to finished.

Grantaire raised his arm and threw the lit candles into the room. They hit the floor, still burning. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, fire began to spread across the pools of alcohol that soaked the ground. A spark is needed to get the fire burning, but once it is ablaze, it burns furious and uncontrollably. The fire spread quickly across the floor, eating up the liquor, using it to grow and spread. Javert watch fire close in around him, watched it spread rapidly through the room, across the floor, up the mountains of casks…

_BOOM! _ BOOM! BANG!

Several casks exploded. Bursting into ash and fire. More barrels fell to the ground, falling in Javert's way so that he had no choice but to stop in his tracks. Furious and bloodthirsty, Javert looked over the barricade of casks and watched fire rise up in front of the doorway, blocking him from getting to the two young rebels. He saw Grantaire standing on their other side of the flames. Their eyes met and, for a moment longer, they glared at each other the same way that they had in the café before Javert took Enjolras. They both knew that this battle was not over. Each side was going to continue to fight until the other was defeated. Until one of them, Grantaire or Javert, was dead.

Then, Javert watched Grantaire turn, and he was gone.

Many women screamed when they saw the fire, heard the explosions. Many men cried out in anger. Grantaire did not pay any attention to any of them. He took Marius's arm and pulled him away from the door. "Come on, let's get out of here."

Marius turned and followed Grantaire quickly across the room. They moved through the group of people, all of whom backed quickly out of their way, not daring to cross their path. Grantaire, leading Marius behind him, went quickly through the pub, down the two flights of stairs and towards the door. Everywhere he looked, people were watching him. He knew that they were going to have to get far away, or they would be found and caught by Javert.

Grantaire got to the door, pushed it open, and went out. Marius went out behind him, feeling that he was moving in a daze. They were both out of breath and breathing heavily. Sweat was running down their faces, wetting their hair. Their hearts were racing in their chests to the point of pain.

Grantaire looked back at the pub behind him. He could see people scrambling around in a panic through the windows. Many of them were beginning to flood out the door. He turned away, trying to hide his face. He kept moving, wanting to get far away from this pub. He led Marius quickly down a confusing maze of streets, narrow allies, and crowded roads. It was not long before Marius no longer recognized the streets around him and he no longer had any idea where they were.

At last, Grantaire began to slowly down. He looked over his shoulder. The streets were getting dark now. The dim light of the hidden sun lingered over the earth, but the stars were visible in the sky. The road that Grantaire and Marius were on now was close to empty, save for him and Marius and a few others that were still passing between the little shops that lined the street. There was no sign of Javert. There was no sign of anyone trying to pursue them. It seemed that, for the time, they were safe.

Grantaire let his breath out. For the first time since he saw Javert enter the pub, he let himself, ever so slightly, relax. He turned around again and started forward. In that one step, pain hit him so hard, so suddenly, and without even the slightest warning, that he doubled over, clinching at his wound. All this time, adrenaline had been pounding through his veins. His mind had been focused on nothing except escape. His body had taken on that animal-like instinct, that instinct that thought of nothing but survival, that instinct that would do anything in order to survive, and in order to survive, Grantaire's body had numbed the pain of his wound, so that he could not feel it. But now, his life was no longer at stake, and the adrenaline had drained from his blood. Now, he could feel everything. Now, he was struggling just to stand up, struggling not to fall over, struggling not to scream, still struggling to stay alive…

"Grantaire, are you okay?!" Grantaire heard Marius cry out from behind him. But his voice sounded distant. Echoing through a vague dreamlike world.

Grantaire did not answer. He looked down at his body and saw blood. Blood had spread across his entire side, hip, and stomach. Blood was running down his leg, staining his light blue pants dark red. He felt his legs getting weak. His head was swimming in a dazed pool of colors and sounds. He was struggling to breathe. He thought he might throw up. Pain overpowered him. He felt it moving through his body like a serpent. It was terrible. Blinding him, choking him, taking him. He was exhausted, weak, sick, hurt, and dying.

"Grantaire!" Marius rushed to his side. He looked at Grantaire and felt his stomach twist into a knot.

Blood. There was blood everywhere. No one could lose that much blood and survive. Grantaire was going to die. Marius felt panic seize him. Grantaire was going to die! No! Marius could not let him die! He would not let him go! Marius had already lost so much. He could not lose Grantaire, too.

_Oh, God, no!_ Marius found himself commanding the Lord. _You cannot take him! Please, don't take him! I need him… _

"Grantaire! Grantaire, look at me!" Marius grabbed Grantaire to support him. He looked down, and watched in horror as blood spreading across Grantaire's body.

After a long moment, Grantaire raised his eyes and looked into Marius's. "I think I'll be okay," Grantaire heard his own voice say through the muffled cloud that seemed to be forming around him, like a barrier that separated him from Marius and all the other living creatures of the earth. He tried to focus on the mission. "We need to get somewhere to stay tonight…"

"Grantaire, just hang on; I'm going to get you some help," Marius told Grantaire, trying not so let him see how terrified he was.

"We need to get out of here," Grantaire repeated. But Marius did not seem to have even heard him speak. "Marius!" Grantaire tried to pull away from Marius's grasp, but at this movement, he felt a dagger stab him in his wound, and he bent over, crying out in pain.

"Sit down," he heard Marius saying. "Just sit down for a minute and… and rest."

Marius gently helped Grantaire sit down on the street. Grantaire sat there on the stone ground, bent over in pain, clutching at his side, breathing deeply, trying not to let his body quiver with each blast of pain, which pulsed through his flesh. He pinched his eyes shut as he pressed his hand against his side. He was forcing deep, quick breaths, as he struggled to breathe through the pain. He opened his eyes and looked down at his trembling hand. It was cover in blood. His whole body was covered in blood…

"Grantaire," Maris said urgently. Grantaire raised his eyes and saw Marius, who was kneeling down before him, looking straight back into them. "I need you to tell me where we can find a doctor."

"I don't want a doctor," Grantaire muttered, struggling to get the words out.

"I don't care. You need one. Now, tell me where we are, so I can find you some help."

Grantaire was about to protest, but another terrible pain stabbed him and, instead, a soft sound of pain escaped his lips and he leaned over, grasping his wound. He was wincing, gritting his teeth, struggling to keep himself under control.

Marius panicked. "Grantaire! Grantaire, look at me!" Grantaire looked. "Tell me what to do. You need help, where can I find some for you?!"

"I don't need help," Grantaire muttered, looking away. "Just find a place to stay tonight… We have to get out of the open…"

Marius stood suddenly up in frustration. He looked down the street, as if looking for an answer.

"Marius, can we just go home?" Grantaire whispered, his weak voice cracking with despair. Marius looked down. Grantaire was looking up at him with sad, pleading eyes. "Please, Marius? They don't know where I live. It will be safe there… Can't we, please, just go home?"

Marius's heart was drowned in pity, sadness, and fear. Grantaire looked terrible. His face was pale and a sickly grey hue poisoned his flesh. Dark lines shadowed under his eyes. He was in terrible pain. He was hurt. He was sick. He was dying. He would not accept help, because he thought that helping him would hurt Enjolras. But he would die without help. Marius could not let him go home.

"We can't go home," Marius said in a grave, yet certain voice. "You need a doctor."

Grantaire looked away. "No, I don't." Then, in an almost warning tone, he looked back up at Marius and told him, "Don't bring me to a doctor, Marius. I just want to go home and go to sleep…"

Marius let out a heavy sigh of pity and frustration. "Grantaire, you need help—"

"Enjolras needs help a lot more than I do," Grantaire said bitterly. "He's dying."

_So are you! _Marius wanted to yell. But he did not. He tore his eyes away from Grantaire and looked down the street. There was no one to be seen. He and Grantaire were alone.

Grantaire suddenly felt a fresh wave of pain cut into him, and he leaned over, struggling against the pain. Marius heard him let out a soft cry and he immediately turned back to him. He bent down beside Grantaire and put his hands on his shoulders, trying to steady him, as if he could somehow help to hold back the pain for him…

"Come on, Grantaire," Marius said softly. "I'll bring you to the doctor tonight, and then, tomorrow we will go save Enjolras…"

"No. I don't want to," Grantaire mumbled. His head was pulsing with his heartbeat. His vision was starting to black out. His own voice was becoming difficult to understand. He tried speaking again, talking louder this time. But this time, he was not even sure that he hand managed to get any intelligible words out of his lips.

Marius felt Grantaire's body starting to go limp and lean against his own. Marius wrapped his arms around him to hold him and keep him from slumping down on the stone. In a desperate panic, Marius looked down at Grantaire's face. It was deathly pale. Grantaire was going to die…

"Come on, Grantaire…" Now, Marius was begging. "Just hang on a little longer… You're going to be okay…"

"I'll be fine! But we have to get out of here before Javert shows up and arrests us!" Grantaire thought he said to Marius, but now he was not completely sure the he had spoken at all.

Marius looked up and desperately searched the streets. There was no one around. No one. The sun was gone. Night had fallen. And they were alone in the dark.

Marius felt his heart sinking as panic rose inside of him. He knew that he had to find help… and quick! Grantaire needed to get to a doctor, or he was going to die. But where could he find help?! There was no one around. He wanted to yell, to cry out that he needed help. But he could not. That would only attract the police, and anyone who saw Grantaire like this, covered in blood, would ask what had happened, and Marius would not know how to answer. He could not tell the truth…

Marius looked suddenly back down at Grantaire. His eyes were closed. His face was white. His body was covered in blood. Marius knew time was running out. If he did not get help soon, Grantaire would die. And he would be all alone again.

Marius raised his head and looked helplessly down the dark street. He had no idea where he was or which way he should go. He was lost. He was scared. He was hopeless. He did not know what to do. And every moment, Grantaire was slipping farther away from him.


	17. Chapter XVII

Chapter XVII

Enjolras stood stiffly against the wall. His hands were hanging by his sides in a position that seemed relaxed. But ever muscle in his body was tensed. He seemed to be leaning against the wall, calm and tiredly. But he was secretly prepared to spring forward at any second. His eyes appeared to be looking tiresomely around the cell, never at anything in particular. But he was constantly watching the gate out of the corner of his vision.

To show his true motives was a good way to get himself attacked by the other prisoners. He had seen this happen to one of the other prisoners a few days back. If a prisoner was going to wait near the gate, they could not let the others realize what they were doing, or the men would see to it that he never attempted this maneuver again.

Enjolras saw the guard approaching the gate. He did not move, but he felt his muscles tighten even more. The guard reached through the bars of the gate and threw three loaves of bread in to the cell.

At once, Enjolras sprang forward, pouncing for the food. At the same time, countless other prisoners bolted in the same destination. Four of these men got there before Enjolras did. The first two men each swept up a loaf, and the second two men began to battle over the third loaf. Not a moment later, the other prisoners were upon all of these men and the battle broke out, men clawing each other like beasts, fighting for just a scrap of food.

Enjolras, in contradiction to the timid and reluctant game that he used to play, was right in the heat of the battle, fighting for food just like the other men. And even more fiercely than many. Enjolras arrived less than a second after the other men had seized the bread. At once, he ascended up the closest man and went for the bread. The man turned on Enjolras, but just at that same moment, other prisoners were swarming in, and the man had to fight them off, as well. In the ciaos, Enjolras managed to rip away a large hung of bread and retreated quickly away, hiding the bread so that none of the other prisoners would realize that he had it and attack him for it.

He immediately went back to the little corner that the other prisoners had seemed to have come to accept as his territory. Enjolras turned the corner and raised his eyes. Luc was sitting there, waiting for him. When he saw him come around the corner, Luc's face brightened and he looked hopefully up at Enjolras.

Enjolras nodded. "I got some." He sat down on the stone beside the boy and held the bread out to him.

"Whoa, you got a lot!" Luc gasped. He took the bread, immediately ripped and chunk off, and devoured it. Halfway through his second handful, Luc held the remaining bread out to Enjolras. "Here, you eat some."

Enjolras shook his head. "You eat it. I am not hungry."

The child was young. There were many adult subjects of which he did not understand, and there were many childish subjects that a grown man would not spared a glance towards that this boy pondered over and gave careful consideration. In these ways, Luc was young, innocent, and oblivious, like a child should be. But there were other things that a child should not have to know, that Luc did understand. He understood darkness, suffering, torment, and pain. He understood hunger. And he understood the sacrifices that a man will make for the good of the ones he loves.

Luc frowned at Enjolras. "I know you are," he said, seeing straight through Enjolras's claim. He held the bread out to Enjolras, pushing it closer to him. "Come on, eat some."

Enjolras was hungry. But not as hungry as he had been before. When he was being tortured in Javert's basement chamber, he only ate every six days. As of now, he had eaten three days ago. But today, Enjolras had gotten a fairly large amount of bread, so he knew that it would be better if he ate today, instead of tomorrow, when his bounty might not be so fortunate. So, Enjolras broke a piece off of the bread and ate it. Luc told him to eat more, but he would not. He gave the rest to the child, who needed it more than he did.

Enjolras leaned against the wall and let his eyes remain on the heedless child as he finished the bread and licked any remaining flavor off of his tiny fingers.

It was funny. Enjolras was never one to love. He did not have time for love. He loved France, and that was enough. He loved Patria and he loved Freedom. But that was all. He did not spare his love to any other living beings.

He had also loved his friends, but he did not realize that until after it was too late. Until after they were gone.

The death of his friends, the cruelty of Javert, the pain of hunger, thirst, starvation, the lash, the blade, his wounds, the infection, and the sickness, the darkness, of loneliness, abandonment, forsakenness… all of this had hardened Enjolras's heart. He had begun to hate the world and everything that he saw around him. He hated 4461, who was only trying to save his dying children. He hated the young guard who was only trying to save him. He hated the Lord that had given up His own life for his salvation…

Enjolras knew that there was no room left in his dark, cold heart for anything that was good. Enjolras had come to hate the world. He knew that any love that might have once been in his heart had been driven out and was gone, never to return. But he was wrong.

For the last several weeks, Enjolras had been questioning, denying, scolding, rejecting, forgetting, and, eventually, hating God and everything that He had done to him. He knew that God wanted to punish him, to make him suffer. He knew that God had forgotten him. Forsaken him. For what good could come out of such a terrible circumstance as what Enjolras had to endure?

But now Enjolras could see that he had been wrong. Now, at last, he could see what God's plan was. Why He had allowed Enjolras to perish in this prison for so long. It was for this little child. Yes, he had suffered greatly. But the long terrible road had brought him to Luc. This child needed Enjolras, as a child needs a father. But just as much, if not more so, Enjolras needed this little child. Just when his will had run out, and he was giving up, surrendering to death, Luc had appeared and had given Enjolras a reason to keep living.

Enjolras never wanted to have children. He never considered it. He never had an eye for women, or anything else. He did not dislike children, but they were not to be his concern. He had a plan for his life. From his very young age, he knew exactly what he would do in his life. He would do everything he could to bring justice to France. He would rally the people, convince them to rise. He would lead the revolution, lead the people into battle. He would fight for freedom and for France. Then, in this same manner, he would die. He would die young and pure. He would die for the cause and become a martyr of freedom. He would die to let others rise to take his place…

He never thought of anything else. He never thought of women. He never thought of children. He never thought of a family. He never thought of love. In fact, when he heard people speak of love, he rolled his eyes and turned away. He never even understood the meaning of the word. No until now.

Enjolras loved Luc life he was his own son. As if the child were of his own flesh and blood. He could not explain the warmth that filled his heart, his soul, his entire being when ever this child looked at him and smiled. He could not explain any of it. Not even to himself. All he knew was that this child was everything to him. His entire world now. This child was his joy, his sun, his ocean, and his forest. His world, his everything. He would protect this child with his life. He would do anything and everything in his power to keep the boy safe.

As for Luc, he did not understand it, either. Luc loved his mother, and she had loved him. That was the only love that he had ever known. No one else had ever looked at him unless it was to glare at him, to spit at him, or to yell at him. No one else had ever touched him unless it was to hurt him. Then, this strange man named Enjolras had appeared and had shown him something that he had not seen since his mother had left. He showed him goodness. Before this man had even known the boy, he had even given himself up to save Luc. No other man that Luc had even known would have done such a thing for him.

It was not long before Luc began to love Enjolras. He loved him the way he had once loved his mother. He trusted Enjolras. He had never trusted anyone but his mother. He cared for Enjolras. He had never cared for anyone but his mother. He loved Enjolras. He had never loved anyone but his mother.

At night, Luc curled up beside Enjolras and rested his head on his chest. Then he heard a steady beating sound. Luc remembered hearing that same sound whenever his mother held him to her bosom. He began to wonder, giving this matter his full thought and concentration. He tried to find an explanation.

There were times when he looked up into Enjolras's deep blue eyes and wondered if, somehow, this man was connected to his mother. Despite how impossible it was, the child wondered if, maybe, somehow, the angel of his mother had come down from heaven and had passed into the body of this man to live in his soul. Luc had never known his father, but, still, there were other times when he wondered if this man could have somehow been his father, finally come back to him after all of these years. Whatever the reason, Luc did not care. He loved Enjolras like a father. He looked up to him like a father. And he needed him the way a child needs his father.

Enjolras was scared. That first time—when he had first spoken to Luc, when he had listen to Luc tell him the story of his tragic past, when he watched the little boy cry and was unable to comfort him, when Luc had looked up at him and decided that he could trust the man, when Luc had then came closer to him, curled up beside him, put his head on his chest, and fallen asleep—that first time when Enjolras had felt the child's tiny little body against his own, he did not know what to do.

Enjolras never showed any affection to anyone. When other people touched him, his body tensed and he uncomfortably moved away from them. And ever since he was taken to this terrible prison, no one touched him unless it was to strike him or to hurt him. So, when he felt this little boy snuggled against his body, he felt his heart start to pound faster. He did not know how to take care of a child. He did not know how to love. But he had already promised the boy that he would care for him, so Enjolras decided to try.

He learned that this little boy was a lot like him. They both knew tragedy, suffering, pain, sadness, loneliness, loss of loved ones, darkness, cruelty, misery. They both knew hunger, thirst, and anguish. But beyond all of that, they both knew that justice was a lie and that the world was not just. They both yearned for freedom, but they both knew that a free world was a fantasy. The earth would not be free until Christ, himself, returned to break away the chains of bandage that imprisoned the world.

Now, Enjolras was still afraid. He was afraid of losing the one thing that was his entire life. He no longer cared about himself, but only about this little boy. He already promised himself that he would give anything that he could to keep the child safe. But he did not know if that would be enough. If something ever happened to this little boy, then Enjolras knew that he would be finished. That he would be broken. That his entire world would be shattered, and he would be destroyed. So, he promised himself that he would never let anything happen to Luc as long as he lived.

Enjolras was afraid. But for the first time since the revolution, he was happy. It was strange to think that in this terrible place, any man could be happy. But the happiness that this little child brought him was so great that it outweighed any other darkness that he had to endure. And for the first time since his mother died, Luck was happy, too.

Luc finished eating the bread, and then he raised his eyes to look at Enjolras. He looked at the man with a sort of deep admiration that a child feels when he looks at a big brother, or a father, or a grandfather and thinks, _When I grow up, I want to be just like him… _

"Enjolras?" Luc said quietly after a moment.

"Yes?"

Luc seemed to be considering something. At last, he shook his head and looked away. "Nothing."

Enjolras could tell that the boy was going to tell him something but then decided against it. Luc glanced up at him and Enjolras gave the boy a small but reassuring smile. "Okay."

That was another one of the reasons that Enjolras and this child understood each other so well. If one of them did not wish to reveal something to the other, they did not push each other. They let it go.

It was getting late and Luc was getting tired. He got onto his hands and knees and crawled over to Enjolras. Luc smiled at Enjolras as he curled up beside him and rested his head on his chest.

Now, Enjolras did not hesitate to put his arm around the child and hold him close.

Luc closed his eyes, and as he listened to Enjolras heart, he began to drift off to sleep.

Enjolras let out a heavy sigh. He leaned his head back against the stone wall and closed his eyes. He felt the child curled up beside him, the warmth of his little body against his own. Enjolras was happy.

Only a few minutes later, Enjolras heard a guard shouting through the prison door. "Attention prisoners!"

Enjolras opened his eyes and listened.

The guard went on. "I need prisoner number 86592 to report here immediately."

Enjolras felt his heart drop. He did not move. His entire body seemed to be frozen.

Luc suddenly opened his eyes and looked up at Enjolras. Enjolras looked fearfully down at the child, but he tried not to show his fear on his face. Luc was terrified. In his huge blue eyes, his face, his entire being, Enjolras could see his fear.

"Enjolras…" Luc whispered.

"Prisoner 86582! Report here now!" the guard ordered again.

Enjolras felt his heart begin to race. No. He could not leave. He would not. He could not leave Luc. What if Javert took him back downstairs and left him there for another month? Another year?! What if he never got to come back to Luc?! No! Enjolras would not leave him!

But what choice did he have? The guard was continuing to repeat his number, anger rising within his voice. If Enjolras did not go to the gate, they would come in to find him. The last thing he wanted was for them to see him with Luc. Then, Javert might hurt the child, as well…

Enjolras would have to go. He made up his mind. He would leave, but then he would do everything in his power to come back.

He forced a false smile to appear on his lips as he looked down at Luc. "I will be back," he assured the child. "You just wait here for me. They probably just have to check my stitches or something." But Enjolras knew that this was the complete opposite of what was in store for him. Questioning. Beating. Torture. He would be lucky if Javert did not beat him half to death. No matter what happened, however, he would have to somehow find a way of getting back to Luc.

Luc looked at Enjolras with huge fearful eyes, not at all reassured. "How long do you think you will be?"

Enjolras looked back into Luc's eyes. He felt his heart sinking. He did not know. He did not answer.

This got Luc upset. "Enjolras, when will you be back?!" he asked again, not almost begging.

When Enjolras spoke, his voice was thin and could barely be heard. "I do not know." Luc's face became dark and afraid. "But I promise you that I will come back," Enjolras told him. "I'll be back soon… Alright?"

He looked straight into Luc's large blue eyes. The child nodded.

"I'll be back," Enjolras said one more time. He got up to leave, turning his back on the child.

"Enjolras!"

Enjolras turned around, and, at once, Luc was there, throwing his arms around him, hugging him as tightly as his little body would allow. Enjolras hesitated for only a moment, surprised and unsure how to respond. Then he leaned over to hug the child back, holding him against his chest in a tight embrace.

"Be careful," Luc whispered.

"I will be," Enjolras assured him.

"_Prisoner 86592! Come here, now!_" the guard thundered.

Enjolras broke away from the child. "I have to go now. I'll be back soon."

Luc watched Enjolras back away, never looking away from him. Enjolras could see tears forming in the child's blue eyes. It made his heart hurt, but he knew that he could not say. "I'll be back," Enjolras promised one more time. Then he turnedhis back on Luc. The child disappeared from his sight, but he could still that last image of Luc in his mind. The child looking at him with those scared, teary eyes.

Enjolras forced the vision out of his head. His face became passive, emotionless, and hard. Now it was time to be strong.

He approached the front gate. 


	18. Chapter XVIII

Chapter XVIII

Marius did not know what to do. The cold night air brush against his face as he ran down the street, frantically looking around at the buildings around him. He had no idea where he was. He tried to remember the streets that Grantaire had taken him down, but now night had fallen, and everything that had been there moments before in the light seemed to have gotten swallowed up by the darkness. He did not know where he was.

Marius panicked and started running faster. He did not know where he was…

_Oh, God… Come on… Come on… Where am I?! _Marius looked up, raising his eyes to search the tops of the tall buildings, looking for anything. Anything at all that he might recognize.

There! He suddenly saw something that he knew. Floating over Paris, looming in the night sky amongst the stars, like an angel in the heavens, was the cross. Relief flooded into Marius, and he found himself repeatedly thanking God in his head. It was the cathedral.

Marius started off, running down the streets, following this cross as the magi followed the star on the night that Christ was born. He kept his eyes on the cross as he raced down the streets, went down a narrow alley, made a quick turn to avoid a group of inspectors, kept running towards the cathedral, trying to memorize the routs he took so that he would be able to retrace his steps later.

At last, he came out onto the street and the grand cathedral loomed before him, proud and magnificent like the castle of a great king. It was the house of a great king… It was the house of God. The God who delivered him out of the darkness and into the light…

Marius only hesitated for a moment, his heart racing and his lungs heaving. Then, he took off running again. He knew the way to Monsieur Fauchelevant's house from here. That was where he went. He did not know where else to go. He ran straight to the house, never looking back. Upon arriving, Marius saw that the lamps outside the house were lit and there was warm yellow light spilling out from the windows.

_Thank God they are home…_

Marius ran to the front door and immediately pounded his fist against it. He waited, panting for air, his heart racing, sweat running down his face.

_Come on! Open the door! _Marius anxiously turned his eyes to look through the window, but the white curtains that hung on the other side blocked his view.

The door opened. Marius abruptly turned back to see Monsieur Fauchelevant standing there. As soon as the man saw Marius, a deep look of concern came over his face. "Marius? Are you alright?"

"Monsieur, I need your help!" Marius immediately cried out.

"Why? What is wrong?!" Monsieur Fauchelevant asked in alarm. "Are you alright?"

"My friend is dying!"

A look of fear came into Monsieur Fauchelevant's eyes and they quickly began to search the streets around Marius. "Where is he?"

"He's not with me, he's…" Marius looked over his shoulder and down the long dark street. "He's not… I will have to show you…"

Without any further questions, any complaints, any protest, Monsieur Fauchelevant gave a quick nod. He grabbed his coat from the rack that hung by the door, and he looked over his shoulder into the house. "Cosette?"

"Yes, Papa?" Marius heard Cosette's sweet voice answer from within the house. Looking past Monsieur Fauchelevant, he caught a glimpse of her standing in the hallway. Cosette moved her eyes and they fell upon Marius. For one brief moment, their eyes met.

Marius felt his heart throb with a sudden pain of longing. But just as suddenly as it had hit him, it was gone. He was afraid of losing Cosette… maybe, he had already lost her. But he was more afraid of losing Grantaire.

"I have to leave. I will be back soon. Stay inside. Keep the door locked," Monsieur Fauchelevant instructed Cosette, as he quickly pulled on his coat and stepped out side the door.

"Yes, Papa," Marius heard Cosette say quietly before the door shut between them. Marius turned away from the house and started down the street, moving at a steady jog. Monsieur Fauchelevant ran beside, moving with incredible speed and agility for a man his age. Marius dared to quicken his speed, and Monsieur Fauchelevant had no trouble keeping up with him.

"Is this the same man that I met with you earlier?" Monsieur Fauchelevant ask Marius and he ran beside him. He did not even sound at all out of breath.

"Yes," Marius answered. "Grantaire." Marius was not sure that they had even told Monsieur Fauchelevant Grantaire's name until now.

"What happened?" Monsieur Fauchelevant asked. His voice was flat and serious as he spoke, nearly void of emotion.

"He wouldn't go to the doctor," Marius told him. "He got worse…"

Monsieur Fauchelevant gave a quick nod. He understood. They did not speak again for the rest of the time.

Marius led the way. He tried to remember which roads he went down. He kept praying to God that he would go the right way and find Grantaire. For a few terrible minutes, Marius thought he was lost, but then he saw the cross in the sky and he knew where he was. He kept moving and, at last, he arrived in the dark, empty street.

"He's right over here," Marius told Monsieur Fauchelevant. Marius hurried off the main road and down a narrow alleyway. There were tall buildings on either sides of this alley, but there were no windows or doors on any of them. The place was dark, secluded, and hidden. This is where Marius had left Grantaire, hidden within the thick overgrown tangle of plants that grew along the sides of the buildings.

Marius went straight into the plants and moved them with his hands to uncover the hiding place where he had left his friend. Grantaire was still there, lying on his back on the ground. He lay there, limp and lifeless. His eyes were closed. His face and skin were the ghastly color of death. The blood that had been covering his body was now pooling out around him and spilling onto the stone ground. He was dead.

Marius felt his body going weak. He felt lightheaded and he could not breathe. He did not understand. He did not know what to do. Unconsciously, his legs began to move and he slowly backed away from Grantaire's body. _Oh, God… Oh, my God… Don't… Why did You… How could You… How could You let this happen?!_

Monsieur Fauchelevant moved past Marius, and went straight to Grantaire. He kneeled down to the ground beside his body. Marius watched in a daze as Monsieur Fauchelevant placed his strong hand on Grantaire's chest and remained this away for several moments, not moving or speaking. Marius watched with a deep tense feeling of anticipation. Finally, Monsieur Fauchelevant looked over his shoulder to address Marius.

"He's still breathing."

Marius felt like large snakes had been constricting his heart and lungs and that they had just released him. "He's alive…" Marius said aloud. _Thank you, Lord! _

"He needs to be taken to the hospital," Monsieur Fauchelevant said urgently.

Marius felt his gut twist into a knot. "I know, but we can't take him to the hospital…" Monsieur Fauchelevant turned to look at Marius, a look of surprise and question on his face. "The police are after us…" Marius said quietly. "Some one might recognize us…"

Monsieur Fauchelevant turned away from Marius, not saying a word. With seemingly no effort, he took Grantaire in his arms, picked him up, and carried him over his shoulder. "I will take him back to my house, then, and see what I can do, but it might not be enough."

He started, moving at a very quick pace, down the road. Marius followed silently behind him. Monsieur Fauchelevant did not need further instruction. He knew his way around these streets, obviously, much better than Marius did. In short time, he arrived at his house, went straight to the door, and pounded loudly against it with one hand. "Cosette, open the door!"

A few moments later, the door opened and Cosette appeared standing before them. As soon as she saw them, her father carrying a lifeless body dripping with blood, her face went white and she backed away. Monsieur Fauchelevant went inside, walking past her without a glance.

Marius followed him in. He looked over at Cosette as he passed by. Her wide blue eyes were fixed on him. The look on her face was afraid, but also confused and questioning. She wanted an explanation. She wanted Marius to talk to her. But he did not. He looked away from her and followed Monsieur Fauchelevant down the hallway and into a deeper room of the house.

Monsieur Fauchelevant laid Grantaire down on the floor, kneeled down beside him, and tried to be gentle as he quickly began to take off his coat and shirt. Marius came into the room and kneeled down on the other side of Grantaire. He looked down at his limp body just as Monsieur Fauchelevant was taking off his shirt, and Marius, for the first time, saw what had become of Grantaire's wound. The bruising that discolored his flesh. The infection that twisted across his body like the vines that grow up the sides of the buildings. The blood, which was pouring out from his wound like red wine emitting from a hole in a cask. He immediately looked away, fighting with his own body to keep from throwing up or passing out.

Monsieur Fauchelevant, however, did not take his eyes off of it. When he was Grantaire's wound's his face changed to take on a deep look of concern and fear. This was much worse than anything he had expected. "How long has it been this bad?" he asked quietly, his voice thin.

"I don't know," Marius muttered. "I kept telling him that he had to see a doctor, but he kept telling me that he was alright…"

Monsieur Fauchelevant's face took on a deep look on concentration, his brow furrowed, his eyes dark and serious. He glanced over his shoulder. Cosette was watching from a distance, peering in the room from the doorway, looking in with reluctant and fearful eyes. "Cosette, bring in some water and as many cloths as you can find." She gave a quick nod and departed.

Monsieur Fauchelevant turned back to examine Grantaire's wound. "His stitches ripped open," he told Marius. "That is why it is bleeding so much."

Marius was not sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. He looked at Monsieur Fauchelevant with anxious fear. "So, what do we do?"

Monsieur Fauchelevant put his bare hand over Grantaire's wound and held it tightly against it, trying to keep him from losing more blood. Even in the depths of his unconsciousness, Grantaire let out fait moan on pain. Somehow, this was a relief to Marius. Just to hear Grantaire make any sound of life was a relief.

"I will try to get the bleeding to slow down, but he is going to need more than that. A lot more."

A few moments later, Cosette returned with a jug of water and a large stack of folded white cloth. She reluctantly entered the room and gave them both to her father. Marius could see her purposely keeping her eyes off of Grantaire.

"Thank you," Monsieur Fauchelevant said quickly to Cosette, not bothering to glance at her. He immediately took one of the cloths, dipped it into the water, soaking it through. Then he brought it to Grantaire's side and thoroughly began to clean his wound.

Grantaire's body tensed. A terrible grimace came over his face and dreadful sounds of pain began to escape through his lips. Marius looked suddenly down at Grantaire. It was as if by seeing the terrible look on his face, Marius, himself, could feel his pain. He wanted to tell Monsieur Fauchelevant to stop. That he was hurting him too badly. But he knew that he could not. He had to save Grantaire…

Marius looked back to Monsieur Fauchelevant as he wetted another cloth—the first cloth was now completely soaked in blood—and went back to cleaning Grantaire's wound, making Grantaire groan on pain. After he had finished, he took several folded cloths into his hands and pressed them tightly to Grantaire's wound.

A faint choking sound emitted from the back of Grantaire's throat and he gagged on the pain. He threw his head to the side, hitting it against the floor. His fingers clutched at the ground below him. Even in his unconsciousness, in his weak and dying state, he struggled to get away. Away from Monsieur Fauchelevant's grasp and away from the pain.

Marius reached down to Grantaire and grabbed his shoulders to hold him still. Grantaire tried to get away for a moment longer, but the strain seemed to be too much for him, and then his body fell limp and went still. Only his chest continued to move, rapidly rising and falling as he struggled to breathe through the pain. After a few terrible minutes, his breathing began to slow down and his face slightly relaxed.

Marius let out a heavy breath.

Monsieur Fauchelevant looked over his shoulder. Cosette was still watching from a distance. "Cosette, clean a needle and thread and bring them here, to me." She gave a quick nod and went away. Monsieur Fauchelevant turned back to Marius.

Their eyes met and he spoke in a stern, grave voice. "He is too sick. He will have to go to a hospital. He needs to get medicine soon, or he will die."

Marius felt dread full his stomach. "I know. But we can't go to any of the hospitals in Paris because Javert is after us…"

At the mention of Javert's name, Monsieur Fauchelevant froze. He stared into Marius's face for a long time, without saying anything. Then, he finally spoke. "Javert is after you?" he repeated. His voice was quiet, as if with fear.

Maris nodded miserably. "Yes, monsieur."

Monsieur Fauchelevant straightened up and he fixed his eyes intensely on Marius, wearing that same deep look of thoughtful concentration on his face. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Why? What happened?"

So Marius found himself telling Monsieur Fauchelevant the entire story. How they had gone to the pub with plans to break Enjolras out of jail, how he had received the letter from his grandfather, how Javert had showed up at the pub, how Grantaire had saved both of their lives, how they had narrowly escaped, how they had then fled down the streets, how Grantaire had suddenly went down in agonizing pain, loosing blood, and dying.

When Marius had finished his story, Monsieur Fauchelevant did not say anything. He stared across the room, in deep concentration. The only thing that finally awoke him from this meditation was Cosette's return, and she entered the room to give her father what he had requested. Monsieur Fauchelevant took the needle, already strung with thread with a quiet word of gratitude that was so soft and faint, that Marius did not understand what it was the he had spoken.

Without a word, Monsieur Fauchelevant carefully removed the many clothes from it and stared down at Grantaire's wound, which immediately began bursting with blood. He and Marius both knew that Cosette would have been a better option for the task that they would next have to do. She was a woman, with careful, steady fingers, and she was well learned in sewing. But neither of them would ask it of her. They could not ask her to endure the terrible sight of the blood, the infection, the wound, and much less could they ask her to drive needles into this man's bleeding flesh to hold the deep gap together.

So, Monsieur Fauchelevant did his best to stitch Grantaire up as Marius used both of his hands to hold his wound closed. During this time, Grantaire barely flinched. It seemed that every second, any remaining strength or life left in him, was draining out with his blood.

When Monsieur Fauchelevant finished, a relieved Marius drew his hands away. He looked down at them and found that they were covered in blood. Looking up, he saw that Monsieur Fauchelevant's hands were also covered in blood. So was his shirt, from the process of carrying Grantaire home. He glanced down at Grantaire. He was covered in blood, too. There was blood everywhere…

Images of the barricade flashed before his eyes, and he saw his friends dying. Now, Grantaire was dying, too.

Monsieur Fauchelevant took the remaining cloths and pressed them against Grantaire's wound. This time, Grantaire did not stir. Monsieur Fauchelevant looked up at Marius. "There is a hospital just outside Paris. It is only a few hours from here. I am going to arrange for a carriage to bring you there."

Marius nodded.

"You stay here with him," Monsieur Fauchelevant went on, nodding down at Grantaire. "Make sure you keep those on his wound. He cannot lose any more blood. I will be back soon." He got up and left.

Marius moved his hand to hold the cloth on Grantaire, like Monsieur Fauchelevant had instructed. Blood was starting to seep through and a red stain was spreading across the white fabric. Marius looked away. He turned his head to look to the doorway, through which Monsieur Fauchelevant had left, and he found himself staring into the wide blue eyes of Cosette.

His stomach flipped over and his throat tightened. This was the first time that he had been alone with Cosette since before the battle. Ever since then, nothing was the same between them. It was as if there was some invisible barrier separating them, keeping them apart. They could not be together anymore. Marius had the choice between Cosette and Enjolras, and he had chosen Enjolras. Now, Cosette was no longer his. He could not keep her because then, one way or another, he would only lose her.

Cosette stared at him for a long time. Her face was dark, sad, cold. Angry? Marius was not sure. It was the look of a woman who had been so deeply in love with a man, who trusted this man with her heart, who would be loyal to this man until the end, who have but one world and it was this man, who love this man so much, only to find that he had betrayed her. This was the look of a woman's broken heart.

"Cosette…" Marius heard her name whisper through his lips before he could hold it back.

She looked at him a moment longer, before she answered. "Marius." Her voice was flat, proper. The way a woman might greet a man that she had just met on the street. She was polite to him, but that was all.

Marius looked at her with sad eyes. His heart throbbed. He yearned to hold her, to run to her, to wrap her in his arms, to run away with her, to forget everything else and just live with her. He loved her so much… But he knew that all of this was fantasy. He could not have her. She was not his to keep. Still, he held onto the faint hope that maybe one day, when all of this was over, he would come back to her, and she would forgive him.

"Cosette…" Marius whispered again. "…I am sorry… I am so sorry. I just… I wish…" he hung his head and closed his eyes, unable to look at her any longer. "I am sorry…"

He felt a warm, gentle touch against his cheek and he opened his eyes. Cosette was kneeling down before him, looking at nothing except his eyes. The warmth of her light, sweet touch seemed to pass through Marius, through his cheek, his body, and straight into his heart. He looked into her eyes, sadly, longingly, maybe even hopefully.

Cosette just looked back at him for a long moment. Then she finally spoke. "I just wish you would tell me what is going on."

Marius felt his heart throb, because he could not tell her. He would only be hurting her and everyone else. "I can't."

He could see her hopes dropping as disappointment came into her face. She dropped her eyes. "Papa would not tell me anything either."

"Cosette…" Marius whispered again. She raised her eyes to look into his. "I would tell you if I could," he told her, his voice pleading for her to understand. "…But I can't."

"Yes, you can," Cosette said quietly. "You can tell me anything. You can trust me…"

"I know I can trust you," Marius whispered. "I trust you more than anyone else in this entire world."

"Then why won't you tell me?"

Marius let out a deep sigh. "I can't tell you. But it is only because I am trying to protect you."

Cosette raised her eyes with surprise. "Protect me?" she asked in confusion. "Protect me from what?"

"I can't tell you."

Cosette looked away. Marius felt his heart sinking. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her everything. But he could not.

"Where have you been?" Cosette whispered after a long moment. "Why did you leave? Why—" she looked back at Marius. "Why don't you ever come to see me anymore? Why do you come here to speak with my father and then disappear never to come back? Why…" Marius saw tears begin to fill her eyes and her voice broke away. "Do you not still love me, Marius?"

Marius felt his heart shatter. He wanted to take her in his arms, pull her to his chest, hold her tightly, and promise her that it would all be alright. But he could not because his hands were covered in blood.

"Of course, I love you!" he cried. His voice was so thin and quiet that it could barely be heard. Cosette looked longingly into his eyes, looking for any hope, any reassurance. "I love you more than anything… I… I am only trying to protect you…"

Cosette's hopes dropped. She looked away again. "Will you ever come back?" she asked quietly. When Marius did not respond, she looked up to meet his eyes.

He swallowed the lump that seemed to be forming in his throat. "I will try…" was all he could bring himself to say.

The tears in her eyes became larger and were in danger of spilling out onto her cheeks. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I will do everything in my power to come back for you. And when I do, we will be together forever… If you will be able to forgive me…"

Cosette bit her lip and blinked the tears back out of her eyes. She looked back into Marius's eyes, never looking away. "Please, just come back, Marius…"

Marius nodded, his face sad. He tried to answer but no words were able to come forth from his lips.

"Marius?" Marius and Cosette both turned to see Monsieur Fauchelevant reentering the room. "There is a carriage outside, waiting for you."

Marius nodded quickly to Monsieur Fauchelevant and turned back to Cosette. He looked into her eyes one last time. "You know I love you," he said quietly. "I always have. I always will. No matter what happens, Cosette… my heart will always belong to you…"

Monsieur Fauchelevant carried Grantaire out to the carriage. He and Marius carefully lifted Grantaire into the backseat and laid him down across it. Before he got in to sit on the floor beside Grantaire, Marius turned to Monsieur Fauchelevant. "Thank you, monsieur," he said quietly. "I will never be able to repay you for all of the things that you have done for us…"

"Do not thank me, Marius," Monsieur Fauchelevant said. "And you do not need to repay me for anything."

But Marius thanked him anyway, several more times. Then, Monsieur Fauchelevant realized that Marius would need money to pay the doctor and handed him a large amount of francs. Marius would have refused his offer, but he had no money of his own with him and Grantaire would need lots of attention, sugary, and medicine if he was going to survive. So, with much more thanks, Marius took the money, and prepared to go.

"Marius…" Monsieur Fauchelevant stopped him, just as Marius was about to get into the carriage.

He turned around. "Yes, monsieur?"

Monsieur Fauchelevant spoke to him in a very low voice. "I just need to tell you that Javert is a very determined man. He will never stop chasing you. He will follow you wherever you go. Never let your gaud down, and always be prepared to run."

Marius wondered how Monsieur Fauchelevant knew this, but he did not have time to ask. Every second was precious to Grantaire's life. He gave an uncertain nod. "Okay, monsieur. Thank you." Then he got in the carriage and they were gone.


	19. Chapter XIX

Chapter XIX

As soon as Enjolras stepped out through the gate of the cell, he was greeted by the guard slamming him in the face with his club. Enjolras fell away, dazed by the collision. He could feel the wounds on his lips and chin, which had finally closed up, slit back open and start bleeding again. Then the guard was screaming at him. "When one of the authorities calls for you, you come at once! Do you understand?!"

Enjolras raised his hand to his face and pressed the sleeve of his shirt to his bleeding mouth, holding it as if that could help to numb the pain. He did not answer the guard.

"I said, _do you understand?!_" the guard yelled, driving his club into Enjolras again, this time hitting him in his side.

The wounds that covered Enjolras's body had finally begun to heal, and thin layer of delicate skin, soft and pink, like the flesh of a baby, now covered them, but when Enjolras felt the club hit him, with an impression like a knife cutting through his flesh, he felt several of the wounds on his side break open again. He fell, but threw out his hands and caught himself on his hands and knees. He felt hot blood begin to run down his body.

"You answer when you are spoken to!" the guard yelled from behind Enjolras.

Enjolras raised his head and looked through the gate of the prison to make sure Luc was not watching. His heart dropped when he saw the little boy's face watching him, peeking out from his hiding place. His eyes were full of terror and tears rolled freely down his face. Enjolras slowly got up, trying not to show any pain, for Luc's sake.

At once, the guard seized him by the collar of his shirt and yanked Enjolras towards him so that he could scream in his face. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!"

Enjolras would not have spoken. He would not have obliged to anything that any of these men ordered him to do. He would not have given them the satisfaction. He would have let the guard beat him until he was knocked unconscious. But Luc was watching, and he could not let him see such a thing. So he glared at the guard and hissed, "_Yes!_"

The man looked into Enjolras's face with dark eyes for a moment longer, as if deciding whether or not to strike him again with the club. A few seconds later, he slapped Enjolras in the face, but he barely flinched, which seemed to only strengthen the guard's anger. Still gripping him by the collar of his shirt, the guard started striding down the corridors, dragging Enjolras along behind him. Enjolras pulled away from the man's grasp and kept walking on his own accord. Almost at once, the guard grabbed him again, but this time only by his arm, and Enjolras could continue to move comfortably on his own.

They did not go far before they came to a room, on the same floor to Enjolras's great relief, and the guard pushed Enjolras through the entrance. Enjolras stumbled inside, but he did not fall. He spared a moment to glare at the guard over his shoulder, just as the man was bowing to someone else who had to be standing on the other side of Enjolras and then departing. Enjolras felt dread fill his gut. He slowly turned his head to face the man standing before him. As he knew it would be, it was Javert.

At once, Enjolras straightened up to his full height, standing strongly. His face darkened with hatred and disgust. He held his head high and glared into Javert's eyes. Javert's face was terrible. Loathing. Hungry. Vengeful. But it was worse than that. Worse than ever before. Like a crazed and rabid animal with absolutely no since of humanity. This was the face of a man who was ready to kill. Ready to murder. Ready to devour.

For a brief second, Enjolras felt a shutter run down his body and he was afraid. But as soon as he noticed it, he brushed it aside, swallowing his fear, and ignoring it. Upon looking at him, one would have thought him bold and fearless.

Javert fixed his cold eyes on Enjolras and left them there for several moments, saying nothing. Enjolras stood firmly before him, making a stand that appeared to be equally as strong. But Enjolras felt that Javert's gaze was sending invisible blades into him so that they went straight through him, cutting into his body and coming out the other side. He felt the impulse to flee, to hide, to look away. But he held his ground, not swaying, not yielding.

At last, Javert slowly began to approach him. As if he had no control over the animal instinct that had taken over him after he had been treated like an animal for so long, Enjolras's body involuntarily tensed. Javert did not raise his hand in anyway that was threatening, in fact, his hands remained folded behind his back as he approached Enjolras, but from Javert's first slight movement, Enjolras expected a blow. A few moments later, he realized that he was driving his bare feet into the stone ground and bracing himself for the impact that would not come.

Javert came close to Enjolras, easily within arms reach of him, and then he stopped to stand there in front of him. His piercing eyes drove into Enjolras. Javert did not speak. He just stood there, fixing Enjolras with a lethal gaze.

Enjolras glared back into his eyes, but an uneasy feeling had come over him. Javert was clearly angrier, hungrier, and more vengeful than even before, but, then, was he not beating Enjolras already? Why was he holding back? What was he waiting for?

Finally Enjolras could bare it no longer and he asked Javert himself. "What do you want?"

Javert did not answer for a moment. He seemed to be considering things for himself, as he slowly moved his eyes up and down Enjolras's body, as if taking in every inch of him, every detail, every weakness. Enjolras, tempted to recoil under his eyes, stood up a little straighter and raised his chin.

Javert finally spoke. "I will make a deal with you."

This was the last thing Enjolras had ever expected to hear come out of Javert's mouth. A deal? For what? For…maybe…his release?! In this brief moment, the faint, the vague thought of freedom came into his mind. Ever escaping this terrible place was an impossible hope that he had long ago abandoned, knowing that it could never be anything more and a fantasy. But now that this, how ever so faint, possibility came back into his heart, he thirsted for it ever more hungrily than before. The thought of freedom to him was like telling the dead man that he had another chance at living again. Enjolras felt his heart leap with excitement, with joy, with hope.

But all of this emotion happened in a matter of less than seconds. Then, Enjolras looked into Javert's dark eyes and he rationalized with himself. He knew that he was being manipulated. Javert would use any and every weaknesses in him in order to make him talk. After all of this pain, this suffering, this imprisonment, Enjolras was desperate to taste a single breath of freedom. And, if he could, Javert would wield this and use it as a weapon against him.

"Really?" Enjolras asked, his voice void of any emotion save for anger and hatred. "I am listening, inspector, but you have not peaked my interest so, please, make this brief…"

The expression on Javert's face became even darker, even angrier, but he went on. "I am willing to make a deal with you, so long as you cooperate."

"I will make that decision once you have told me what it is that this deal requires," Enjolras said flatly.

Javert glared at him. "If you cooperate and do everything that I tell you to do, answer all the questions I ask you, then you will be released on parole."

Enjolras felt a faint flame of hope kindle in his soul. Enjolras had promised from the beginning that he would never speak to Javert. But since then things had changed. His only priority when he entered the prison was to die strong for the sake of his friends. Now, his only priority was to protect Luc. Now, he was willing to make choices…

Enjolras with much difficulty swallowed, and he felt like something huge and hard was slowly forcing its way down his throat. He, for the first time, was willing to work with Javert by betraying his friends. He found his eyes dropping to the stone ground, not because he was ashamed that Javert was watching him now, but because he was ashamed that his friends were watching him now. Somewhere, he knew that they were watching him. Even if it was to save Luc, he could not help but feel terrible guilt and shame. He opened his lips and spoke so quietly that he could barely be heard, "What do you want me to do?"

Javert was surprised but very pleased with his response and his willingness to cooperate. He raised his head in superiority and looked upon Enjolras the way the master would look at his slave. "First, you will tell me the names, addresses, and family members of every man that you know to have been involved with the rebellion."

"And then?" Enjolras raised his eyes without raising his bowed head to look up Javert.

"Then, you will help me find whoever I ask you to help me find," Javert said promptly.

"Meaning Jean Valjean," Enjolras added, not asking because he knew he was right.

But Javert did not answer for a moment. "Perhaps," he said at last. "That is no concern of yours. Whatever I instruct you to do you do without resisting and without questions. Only after I have everything that I want, will I release you." Javert finished and looked at Enjolras with dark, penetrating eyes for a long time. Then he questioned him, "Do you think that you will be able to do that?"

Enjolras did not speak for a long moment. Then, he finally made a decision. "Yes."

Enjolras thought that all of his friends were dead. For the rest of his life, he would be burdened with the guilt of betraying them. But he would ask them to forgive him, and try to explain to them that he only did it for the sake of the child. He thought that they would understand. He thought that they would forgive him.

Enjolras thought that once he had given Javert the names and Javert had questioned the families of all of his friends, then he would have to help Javert find Jean Valjean. Enjolras would feel guilt for this, too. He still did not know who this man Valjean was. He did not understand any of it. But he did know that Valjean had helped him at the barricade. He had saved his life. Enjolras would be betraying him, as well. However, for Luc, Enjolras was willing to commit such a sin.

Enjolras did not know what Javert really had planned. He did not know that Grantaire and Marius were alive. He did not know that Javert planned on using him as a trap, to lure his only two friends who were still alive to their deaths. Javert would simply have Enjolras sentenced to hang, and while he awaited his execution, he would be tied to the post just outside the gallows. Javert would make sure that everyone in Paris knew about the execution, including Grantaire and Marius. He would make sure that no guards were watching Enjolras… at least no guards that were in sight. Then, when Grantaire and Marius came and attempted to save Enjolras, they would all be surrounded by the police. Grantaire and Marius would be arrested, at once. They would be questioned, tortured, and then put to death. Marius would have a public execution, and all of Paris would see what becomes of a traitor. As for Grantaire, Javert would see to it that he had the pleasure of shooting him himself.

Enjolras did not know any of this. If he had, he would never have said a word. He would never have thought of cooperating. But he did not know this. Nor did he know that Javert really had no intention of releasing him after Grantaire, Marius, and Valjean were dead. After the three of them were gone, Enjolras would join them in death. Javert did not feel that he was obliged to keep any bargains that he made with such filth as this. After all, he was only doing what he must in order to find justice.

Javert nodded with approval, very satisfied and proud with himself. "Wise decision," he said darkly, in a way that implied, _I would have killed you if you decided on anything else._ Javert felt the triumph of his victory. He had finally defeated Enjolras. At least, that was what he thought. But for Enjolras, the battle was not yet over.

Enjolras raised his head and looked at Javert without a hint of shame or defeat. He rose to his full height, composing himself, raising his shoulders, straightening his back, holding his head high. "Alright, inspector," Enjolras began. Now, his voice, his posture, his attitude, his entire being seemed to claim that he was the one in control of the situation. Javert saw this and his face darkened. "You have given me your terms. I will oblige to them, but if you must also oblige to mine."

Javert glared at Enjolras. The look of agitation his face was so extreme that he appeared ready to kill, to destroy Enjolras, at once. "What are they?"

Enjolras drew in a deep breath. Now was the time. Now was his chance, his only chance to save Luc. He tried to speak boldly. "I will help you but only if one of the other prisoners is released, as well."

Javert did not answer. He seemed to be considering this. In reality, he was considering the situation. He was considering what he could get out of it. He was looking for another weapon to use against Enjolras. This might lead him to one. "Which prisoner?" Javert ask.

Enjolras hesitated for a moment. Then he answered, "012."

Without a word, Javert moved past Enjolras, went to the door of the room, stepped out into the hallway, and addressed one of the guards, who was standing in the corridor. "Bring me prisoner number 012."

Enjolras felt his innards freeze. He was not expecting this. He did not want Javert to see Luc. He did not want them to bring Luc into this, at all. He only wanted to protect him, but by doing so, had he only put him in more danger? For a few moments, Enjolras began to panic. He did not know what to do. If he could have taken back those words, he would have. He did not know what to do. He was going to lose Luc. Javert was going to hurt him. He did not know what to do…

Enjolras suddenly realized his own condition and seized control over himself. He did not know why he was so afraid. Javert had merely called for the prisoner that he, himself, had requested to be freed. That was not a threat to Luc. Then, why was he so afraid? He could not clearly answer this question. He could not explain it, but he knew—or thought he knew—that something bad was about to happen. Still, he told himself that this was probably nothing. After all, he always expected the worst nowadays. It was probably just his traumatic mind telling him that there was danger where there was not. Enjolras tried to comfort himself with this thought, but he could not calm himself hardly at all. He was afraid. He tried not to let Javert see this.

Javert turned to face Enjolras, his eyes fixing him with that terrible stare and his face cold like stone. "So, let us begin. Give me the names."

Enjolras did not answer. He was not ready yet. He did not trust Javert. "I will give you the names once you have signed the warrant for our release."

Javert suddenly came at him, charging at him in such away that Enjolras jumped back, bracing himself for a bow. But Javert did not hit him. Instead he roared, "You will do as I tell you! That was the part of the bargain!"

Enjolras glared at Javert. He was saved from having to speak, because at this moment, the guard arrived at the door. Enjolras immediately turned away from Javert and looked at the man who had just entered the room. The guard was holding a little boy by the collar of his shirt, making him walk. Standing next to the guard, the child's head did not even come halfway up the man's thigh. He looked even tinier and even more helpless now. The boy was terrified. His face was pale, his eyes were filled with horror, and his cheeks were stained red from tears.

As soon as Luc saw Enjolras his face filled with great relief and great need. He looked at Enjolras, as a child looks to his father when he needs help. When he is depending on the man to protect him. Enjolras would do everything that he could to do both.

Javert turned suddenly around to face the guard. "Remain here, I may need you," he instructed the guard.

The blade of fear and dread stabbed Enjolras in his stomach again. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. Enjolras was not sure exactly why he was so afraid. Something that he had never felt before, something of deep meaning that goes beyond feeling or instinct, something that told him that something—he did not know what, but something—was terribly wrong. That something bad was going to happen.

Javert turned back to Enjolras and fixed him with a cold gaze. "The names…"

Enjolras did not answer. He looked back at Luc. Then he looked back at Javert. He felt like an oblivious and helpless animal that was being lured into the trap by the deadly hunter. He felt for certain that there was a trap, but he could not find it. He could not see it. How was he to avoid a trap, if he did not know where it lied? Enjolras looked back at Luc, and their eyes met.

"Answer me!" Javert snarled, anger rising in his voice. "Or we will have no deal!"

Enjolras turned his eyes back to Javert. For a brief, not even a fraction of a second, as if as soon as he was looking it was disappearing, Enjolras thought he saw something terrible cross Javert's face. But what was it?! What was Javert planning?! Trying to figure this out was maddening to the point of hysteria, of insanity.

Javert stepped closer to Enjolras in the same threatening way that he came at him in the torturing chamber before he struck him, beat him, cut him. Javert looked at Enjolras, and those same hungry eyes loomed only a short distance before his own. Then that same cold voice hissed, "I am not afraid to kill you." Javert had spoken these same words before. They were the last words that he had spoken to Enjolras on their last encounter. "I _will _kill you…"

Enjolras stared into Javert's eyes. They were the same dark eyes that he had looked into from the beginning. The eyes of the man who murdered Grantaire, the man who had beaten him, the man who had tortured him, the man who promised to kill him but then did not. Yet, here he was, promising to kill him still. Javert still promised to kill him…

A deep look of understanding suddenly passed over Enjolras face. For a moment, he looked at Javert with sudden realization, with quickly turned into utter anger, disgust, and hatred. "You will kill me…" Enjolras repeated, after a long moment. His voice was certain, as he proclaimed his own death, yet, it was unafraid. His face suddenly changed and he looked at Javert with such disgust, as his voice began to rise with anger. "No matter what I say or do, you will kill me! As soon as I tell you what you want to know, you will kill me! As soon as you find this Jean Valjean, you will kill me!"

Enjolras knew that he was right. As certain as he was that he hated Javert, he was certain that Javert would kill him. Javert had said it himself. Again, Enjolras was cursing himself. He now seemed so terribly stupid, so ignorant, so selfish to trust Javert for even a second. This was the man that killed Grantaire. How could he ever even think of working with him?!

The memory of Grantaire's death, of Javert shooting him, and then leaving him to die passed before Enjolras's eyes, and, with it, burst a new flame of anger. Enjolras suddenly threw out his hands and pushed Javert back away from him. "Get away from me!" Enjolras hissed. "I will never help you!"

Javert immediately turned back to Enjolras, and in this same moment Enjolras felt the blade of a knife slash across his face. He turned his head just in time that the blade spared his left eye, but not quickly enough to keep it from opening a deep gash that ran from just beside his eye and down his cheek. Reflexively, Enjolras threw himself backward, and his hand shot to his face to press against this bleeding gash. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard Luc cry out, begging Javert not to hurt Enjolras.

Before the dazed confusion of the blow had even passed him by, Javert seized Enjolras, pushed him up against the wall, and forced him to looking into his eyes. Javert opened his mouth and words seemed to fall out through his lips, as if a cage encasing a fire was open to release the smoke that began to pour out from it. "You will do everything I say… or I will kill the child."

Enjolras felt as if Javert's blade had stabbed him again. But this time, straight through his heart, and it took a few moments for the shock of the blow to wear off of him. This was the blow that Enjolras had been anticipating. This was what his instincts had been trying to tell him all along, but he was too stupid to understand them. Enjolras, seized by terror, by panic, looked suddenly back to Luc. He looked at Javert with pleading, begging eyes. Begging him not to hurt the child, the same way he had begged Javert to let him go to Grantaire as he died.

Javert felt as much sympathy from Enjolras now, as he did for him when he desperately tried to get to Grantaire as he was dying on the café floor. Javert returned Enjolras's plea with a dark and pitiless glare. He turned his back on Enjolras to face the guard and to face Luc. "Bring me prisoner number 4461."

"No!" Enjolras suddenly shouted. Before he was aware of it, he had run across the room and threw himself between Javert and Luc. The guard holding Luc tried to pull the child away from Enjolras, but Enjolras took Luc into his arms at the same time and, with surprising strength that he had not had since his first beating, Enjolras yanked the child from the guard's grasp and pushed Luc behind him. Enjolras stood before him, the only barrier between this child and his death. At once, Enjolras felt Luc wrap his arms around him, clinging tightly to him. Enjolras made himself as big as he could and held out his arms to hide Luc from Javert.

Javert turned suddenly to Enjolras and drew his gun. He aimed it at Enjolras's head. "Get out of the way or I will kill the child," Javert roared.

Enjolras did not budge. "You will have to kill me first."

Javert did not react. His face remained unchanged, but he was thinking. He could see now that Enjolras was not going to give in. He could see that Enjolras loved this boy. He could see that losing this child was what Enjolras feared. He did not fear losing his own life.

Javert turned abruptly to the guard. "Bring me the child."

"If you touch him I will kill you!" Enjolras snarled at the guard, pushing Luc farther back behind him. His face was so terrible, so furious, like the face of a wild animal that is willing to do anything in order to protect his young, that the guard momentarily stopped, fearing for his life. He glanced at Javert, who was watching him with a dangerous gaze. Then, he drew his gun and continued to advance on Enjolras.

Enjolras did not seem to even see the gun. He glowered at the guard, ready to attack him with his bare hands. The guard aimed his gun at Enjolras. "Stand down, or I will shoot!" he warned.

But Enjolras did not stand down. "Shoot."

The guard glanced at Javert, as if asking him what to do. Enjolras saw this. He knew that Javert would kill him, but not yet. He would be no use to Javert if he was dead. They would not kill him yet.

This whole time, ever since Enjolras had rushed to the save the child, Javert had been watching him. Watching his every move. Considering him. Manipulating him. Javert then gave the guard a new order. "Bring in prisoner 4461."

The guard, who looked relieved that he would not have to deal with Enjolras any longer, nodded and hastily left the room. Javert never took his eyes off of Enjolras. Enjolras looked back at him, never looking away, never yielding. Javert could see that Enjolras was stronger now than even when he stood in the café at Grantaire's side. This little child, this helpless, weak, powerless child, had given Enjolras strength that could not be explained. This was a strength that Javert could not break.

A long time passed like this, the two men looking into each other's eyes but never speaking, the little boy clinging to Enjolras, hiding his face in his body. At last, Enjolras broke the silence. "If you hurt him at all, I swear on the Lord I will never say a word to you," he growled at Javert, speaking through clenched teeth. "I will never help you."

Javert looked at him unmoved. "You have already sworn never to help me. So, what difference does this make to me?"

Enjolras did not know how to answer. For the moment, Javert had him. But at this time, the guard reappeared with prisoner 4461 and they entered the room. As always, Enjolras looked over at the prisoner, but the prisoner would not look at Enjolras.

As soon as they entered the room, Javert abruptly crossed the floor and came at Enjolras. Enjolras pushed Luc farther back as he took a threatening step towards Javert. These men met as two about to engage in combat. As Javert came at him, Enjolras threw his fist at the man's face, aiming to break his nose, the same way he had broken the nose of the last man who had dared to hurt Luc. But Javert was expecting an assault and dogged it. Enjolras was already swinging at him again, this time wildly clawing at him like a wild beast. But before Enjolras's strike hit Javert, Javert's strike hit him.

With the impact of being suddenly pierced by a bullet that he never saw coming, Enjolras felt it hit him. At once, his left leg gave out completely and he fell. As he fell, Javert pulled the blade of his knife out of Enjolras. Pain stabbed him, cutting through his leg first, but then shooting through his body. For a moment, the pain seemed to paralyze him. He could not breathe. But a moment later, trying to ignore the pain, Enjolras was trying to get back up, but he found that he could not move his left leg. He looked down at his leg and saw thick dark liquid bursting out of his thigh, where Javert had stabbed him.

"Enjolras!" Luc dropped down onto the ground beside him, clutching at his arm as he looked with horror-filled eyes upon on the blood emitting from Enjolras's leg.

"Get back!" Enjolras whispered to the child. He grabbed Luc by the sleeve of his shirt and, from where he was on the ground, pushed the child behind him, still trying to protect him.

Javert drew a handkerchief out of his coat and used it to wipe the blood off of the blade of his knife. Then, he went straight to Enjolras, seized him, and yanked him to his feet. When Enjolras's left foot touched the ground, it sent a blade of pain cutting through his leg, which could not bear even the lightest weight. Javert dragged him across the room and threw him at prisoner 4461. The prisoner caught him, taking him into his strong arms so that Enjolras did not fall.

Enjolras pulled away from the man—but the prisoner never let go of him completely. If he had, Enjolras would have fallen back to the ground—and turned back to look at Javert. Javert's back was turned to him and he was approaching Luc. Enjolras looked desperately around, trying to find anything. Anything that could protect Luc. He saw the knife in the belt of the guard standing beside him. It was within his reach. He would not be able to kill Javert with the knife, not from this distance. By maybe, he could still save Luc…

So suddenly that no one realized what he doing until it was too late, Enjolras reached for the knife, ripped it away from the guard, and then pressed it against his own throat. Then he cried out in a loud voice, "Get away from him or I will kill myself."

Javert looked back at Enjolras, who was looking back at him with a dark, furious, but certain face. Javert had no doubt that if he took another step this foolish revolutionary would really use the knife to end his own life. Javert could not let him kill himself. He needed this man alive. Enjolras was clever, and he had outwitted Javert.

Fury suddenly erupted through Javert. He took a small step away from Luc, but Enjolras would not lower the blade away from his throat until Javert had moved to the complete other side of the room. Then Javert to turned prisoner 4461 and gave him the order.

Without a word, 4461 took off Enjolras's shirt, revealing his wounds. He was already bleeding in the places where the guard had struck him earlier. Then, 4461 secured him in the doorway of the room, binding one hand to each side of the entrance. Enjolras stood there without resisting, breathing deeply in a struggle against the pain that was throbbing in his leg and shot through his entire body at the slightest movement. The guard supplied 4461 with his beating stick, and the prisoner got behind Enjolras, prepared to carry out his orders.

"No! Don't hurt him!" Luc yelled from across the room, as he suddenly realized what was about to happen. No one in the room acknowledged him. "Stop! No you can't hurt him!" Luc was getting to his feet.

"Luc, be quiet!" Enjolras suddenly snapped at the child. Taken aback, the boy recoiled and stared at Enjolras with huge fearful eyes. "Stay where you are!" Enjolras barked at him, again. "Don't leave that corner."

Fresh tears spilled out of the child's eyes and ran down his face. "But Enjolras…" the boy cried, his voice broken with sobs. "…I can let them hurt you. I have to help you…"

Enjolras felt his heart burning. He wanted to run to Luc and hold him, tell him that it would all be alright. But he could not. He looked away from the child, forcing his face to remain expressionless and his voice to remain dark and hostile. Then, he forced himself to say the most terrible thing that he could have said to the little boy. But he had no choice. He had to protect Luc, even if he had to hurt him to do it. "You can't help me. If you move, you will only hurt me worse…"

Luc suddenly terrified, backed away, back into the corner of the room and sat down, not daring to move, barely allowing himself to breath. He had never heard Enjolras speak to him like this. He had never seen Enjolras look at him like this. He was scared, confused, and heartbroken.

For Enjolras, the pain of letting the child hear him speak these words was even worse. He wanted to comfort Luc, to tell him that it was not his fault, that he was sorry for ever saying such a thing. But he could not. He could not even bring himself look at the child. So, instead, he stared at the stone wall across the room and braced himself for the pain that was soon to follow.


	20. Chapter XX

Chapter XX

Enjolras was sitting at the bottom of a deep dark pit that could have been the depths of the well. He sat there cold and alone, with no one to help him. His head was bowed, and his eyes looked into the darkness around him. He was dying. Every second, the clock that held the measure of his life was ticking away, getting closer to the end. Time was running out.

"Enjolras!" Grantaire suddenly called as he looked down into the deep dark pit and saw Enjolras imprisoned there.

Enjolras raised his eyes to look out of the darkness, and, for the first time, Grantaire could see his face. When Enjolras saw Grantaire there looking down at him, his face lit up, like the flame that burned in his eyes when he spoke of revolution. "Grantaire!" Enjolras cried out, his voice a mixture of joy and desperation. He looked up at Grantaire, who was still free, free from imprisonment and free from the clutches of death. He looked up at him with long, pleading eyes that made Grantaire's heart ach. "Grantaire, help me!" Enjolras cried out.

Grantaire tried to give him a reassuring nod. "I'm going to help you, Enjolras!" Grantaire promised him. "Just hang on..." Grantaire flattened out on his stomach and reached his arm down into the pit towards Enjolras. "Take my hand; I'll pull you out."

Enjolras stretched out his hand and reached towards Grantaire's, trying to take his hand so that he could pull him to freedom. "I can't reach you..." Enjolras cried out.

Grantaire leaned farther down into the pit, inching his hand closer to Enjolras. But it was not enough. Enjolras's hand was still a far distance below his own. Grantaire drew out of the dark pit and sat back on his knees.

"Um...' his eyes quickly searched around him for anything that he could use to get Enjolras out. But there was nothing. He could feel the seconds ticking away. He knew time was almost up. With no other choice, he reached back down towards Enjolras and leaned in as far into the pit as he could without falling in himself. "Can you reach me now?" Grantaire asked desperately.

Enjolras reached his hand up as far as he could and tried to take Grantaire's. But he still could not reach him. "I can't."

Grantaire used his one his hand to grab the ground around the side of the pit, digging his fingers into the stone. Then, he leaned over into the pit so that he, himself, was in danger of falling in, plunging his hand into the darkness, reaching out of Enjolras. "Come on, Enjolras, you can do it," Grantaire urged him. "Take my hand; I'll pull you up."

Enjolras reached out for Grantaire, trying desperately with all his strength, all his will, all his power to reach Grantaire. But Grantaire could see that it would still not be enough. He risked sliding a little deeper into the pit. He reached out of Enjolras… He was still not close enough to pull him out, but he was getting closer. Their fingers were nearly touching!

Grantaire slid a final step deeper into the darkness. Now, he was practically dangling by the hand that was still gripping the edge. If he let go, if his fingers slipped he would fall in. "Enjolras, take my hand!" Grantaire cried out. Enjolras reached for him… Almost there… Yes! Grantaire was close enough! He felt his hand touched Enjolras's, and at once, he closed his fist to grasp Enjolras's wrist. But just as he had him, just as he was able to touch him, he lost him.

Grantaire did not know how. He did not know what had happened. He watched in utter confusion as Enjolras began to slip away from him. It seemed as if the bottom of the pit had disappeared and had been replaced by darkness so thick that it could be swum through like water. And Enjolras was sinking. Sinking into the darkness. Being dragged down into the abyss.

For a long moment, Grantaire watched in utter horror as Enjolras sunk into the dark oblivion. He did not understand. What was going on?! Suddenly, a loud terrible noise, like two heavy metal objects striking into each other in a head-on collision, sounded through the darkness. Grantaire felt a bitter chill run through his body, turning his blood to ice and his heart to stone. This sound was that of the clock striking the hour. Time had run out. Grantaire was too late. Enjolras's life was over.

"No!" In a desperate attempt to get to him, Grantaire, gripping the edge as tightly as he could, threw himself down into the darkness, reaching of Enjolras. He felt Enjolras's hand brush his own, and at once he seized it. For that brief second, he grasped Enjolras hand, holding him up, keeping him alive. But then, somehow, as if his body was no longer solid but had turned into smoke, Enjolras slipped away from him again, and continued to sink, vanishing into the darkness.

Enjolras let out a terrible scream, like that of someone being tortured. Coming forth from the darkness, his scream was like those of the creatures who cannot escape the pits of hell. "Grantaire, help me!" Enjolras cried. Though he the darkness was constantly closing in on him, taking him, Grantaire could still see his face. It was so sad, so scared, so desperate, and looking to him to save him.

Acting without logic or reason, but only with the desperate longing to save Enjolras or to die with him, Grantaire threw himself down into the dark pit, still reached for Enjolras. A moment later, he realized with horror that he had let go of the side, and he could not pull himself back out. He could see Enjolras for only a moment loner. Then, he was falling.

Falling through the darkness. He could not see anything. It was like sinking through the crushing depths of the ocean, sinking deeper into oblivion, sinking deeper, as ever second more black water separates him from the world where there was still light. Suddenly as he continued to fall, he struck into something, and for a moment he thought that he had fallen to the bottom of the pit. But no, then he was still falling. On the impact, a terrible pain cut across his body, burning him like fire, yet hitting him like ice. Then, he was falling through darkness and pain. That was all he knew.

"Grantaire! Grantaire, help me!" Enjolras yelled from somewhere within the darkness.

Grantaire reached out in front of him, trying to find Enjolras. But he could not. He had no idea where Enjolras was. Enjolras cried his name again, but there was no way Grantaire could tell from which direction his voice was coming from. In this deep dark pit, his words seemed to echo and came at him from all directions. "Enjolras, where are you?!" Grantaire cried out in desperation.

"I am here! Grantaire! Grantaire, help me!"

But Grantaire did not know where Enjolras was. Desperation hit him and he began to panic. "Enjolras, I don't know where you are—"

Pain hit Grantaire again. This time it was harder and even more terrible. For a moment, he could not breathe. Darkness closed in on his from all sides, smoothing him, claiming him. He wanted desperately to get out, to come back to the light. But there was no way out. He was trapped. And it was too late. Time was up.

All Grantaire knew was darkness, the sensation of falling forever, and the pain. The sound of the deep, dead sound of the clock, like a large bell sounding from within the depths of the sea, was still cutting through the darkness.

Enjolras was still calling his name…

"Grantaire. Grantaire. Grantaire!"

Grantaire felt that he had been moving at the speed of a bullet, tearing through the black void of nothingness that stretched on forever, and had now abruptly come to a stop. Then he was standing still, watching in a dizzying blur as the darkness sifted around him, swirling in a mix of strange dark shadows. Pain was throbbing through his body, worse than ever now. His head was pulsing with pain. He felt the urge to vomit into the darkness. He still did not know where he was. He still could not see. But slowly, the senses of life slowly seemed to be coming back to him.

With much effort that seemed to use up all of his remaining strength, Grantaire opened his eyes. A dim sort of light that had the warmth but not the intensity of sunlight, like perhaps, sun falling through closed curtains, lit the room. But even this faint light hurt his eyes. He stared up at the ceiling above him, which had once been painted white but, now the paint was pealing and the original white had faded to a dull creamy color. He was lying on his back, his head rest on a thin pillow, and a light blanket covered him. He was not wearing a shirt but clean white bandages were wrapped from his waist to just below his chest covered most of his body. He could still hear the sound of the church bells ringing somewhere in the distance, to alert the city of the time. But now they were much softer, less ominous, almost peaceful.

His entire body ached with pain, but the worst of it was in the place where he had been shot. He was breathing heavily, his lungs heaving to pull in air. Sweat had broken out all over him, running down his face and wetting his hair. For a moment, he looked around in panic, still looking for Enjolras. But then, reality began to set in on him, and he began to determine what was really and what had only been happening in his head. He had not found Enjolras. He and Enjolras were not falling into the dark pits of hell. That was not real. The pain was real. The clock ringing out was real. And, as it turned out that someone really was calling his name, but it was not Enjolras. It was Marius.

"Grantaire, it is okay. Everything is going to be alright…" Marius said in a quiet voice. He leaned over Grantaire's bed to press a damp cloth against his forehead. Grantaire's fever had finally broken. After the doctor had gotten the bleeding under control and treated Grantaire for his sickness and infection, there remained the on going struggled to get his fever to go down, and Marius feared that it would become too bad and Grantaire would die. But at last, Grantaire starting sweating and his temperature began to drop. Only a few minutes later, Grantaire, trapped in some terrible world in his confused mind, started breathing deeply and thrashing around in his bed. Then he started muttering Enjolras's name. At last, Marius had finally succeeded in waking him up.

When Marius saw Grantaire's eyes open, relief flowed into him, and he started to breathe again. Grantaire still looked terrible. His face was pale and sickly. Darkness hung under his eyes and redness circled around them. Just by looking at him, Marius knew that he felt terrible. But at least he was alive.

With much effort, Grantaire turned his head to look at Marius, who was sitting in a small wooden chair beside his bed. "Where are we?" Grantaire murmured. His voice was weaker than Marius had ever heard him speak before.

"We're at the hospital," Marius answered him.

Grantaire was not surprised. He told Marius not to take him in, but it did not surprise him that Marius had done it anyway. Maybe, it was for the best. Grantaire closed his eyes and let out a heavy breath as a shot of pain cut through his body. He heard the clock sound one more time and then go silent. "What time is it?" he muttered, without opening his eyes.

"Twelve o'clock."

"Noon?"

"Yes."

Grantaire was relieved. Because he would need some time to rest before he could get up and be ready to face Javert. He forced his eyes open and met Marius's gaze. "We have eight hours before we have to get back to the prison… maybe, nine if we can get there quick enough…"

Marius did not answer.

Grantaire could see by the look on his face that he was hiding something from him. "What?" Grantaire asked him. "Marius, what is it?"

Marius let out a heavy sighed. He did not think this conversation would go over well. "Grantaire…"

Grantaire frowned. "Yes?"

Marius felt the urge to look away, to break eye contact with Grantaire, but he forced himself to continue to look into his eyes. "Grantaire, we cannot leave today."

"What?!" Grantaire immediately protested. "Yes, we can! We have to! Enjolras could die—"

"Grantaire!" Marius said firmly, cutting him off. "_You_ are going to die if you leave this hospital. You need to get proper medical attention."

Grantaire scolded. "Well, I've already got medical attention. I'll be fine—"

"No, you won't. We have to stay here for a few days, at least, so the doctor can take care of you."

Grantaire was about to object again, but at the mention of the doctor a new thought came into his head. He remembered Javert. Surely he and Marius were now the most wanted men in Paris. It was not safe to stay at a hospital. Nothing was safe. They could not trust anyone. "Marius, what the hell were you thinking?!" Grantaire suddenly hissed, lowering his voice so that he would not be overheard by anyone who might have been listening from the other side of the curtains. "Why did you bring me here?! We can't stay here! He will find us!"

By "he" Marius knew that Grantaire meant Javert. "We are not in Paris," Marius told Grantaire. "I knew it would not be safe there, so I took you here."

That was a relief, but Grantaire was still not satisfied. "What did you tell the doctor, then?"

Marius dropped his eyes from Grantaire. "I did not know what to tell him…"

Grantaire felt his heart sinking. "Marius, what did you tell him?!"

Marius looked up at Grantaire. "I did not tell him anything. I gave him fifty more francs and he stopped asking questions."

Grantaire did not try to hide the displeasure on his face. That was one of the worst things Marius could have done, right next to bluntly telling the man that they were revolutionaries planning to break into the prison. Marius could have made up anything. He could have said Grantaire was accidentally stabbed while doing anything. Working with dangerous equipment or training for the military. Or he could have simply said that they had been attacked on the streets. But saying nothing was as good as admitting they were guilty. Innocent men do not need to hide.

"Great," Grantaire said, obviously displeased. He ran his hand over his face in frustration, and ended up soaking his hand in sweat.

"I'm sorry, Grantaire," Marius said quietly. "I did not know what else to do… I'm not as smart as you are…"

"It's alright, Marius," Grantaire muttered, but from the tone if his voice, Marius could tell that Grantaire was still angry with him. He let out a heavy sigh and looked back to meet Marius's eyes. "How far is it to get back to Paris?"

"A couple of hours," Marius answered quietly.

"Okay then, we'll have to leave here at six."

"Grantaire…" Marius said quietly, and he waited to go on until he was sure that Grantaire was listening. "Grantaire, we cannot leave here."

"Yes, I can, and I will," Grantaire snapped at Marius, taking him off guard. The use of the word "I" instead of "we" made Marius afraid. It was almost as if Grantaire no longer needed him. That he would be better on his own.

"No, we cannot," Marius objected. "You need medicine—"

"Marius, I'm _fine!_"

"No, you are not!" Marius snapped back, for the first time raising his voice. "That's what you told me last time, and then you almost died! You almost _died,_ Grantaire!" Marius cried again. "If I would have listened to you and not have taken you to the hospital, you would be dead right now!"

Grantaire opened his mouth in intent to protest, but no clever comeback managed to find its way even off his quick-witted tongue. He fell silent. Marius had a point that he could not argue against. Not until this moment did he realize that just from lying on his back in bed and verbally protesting, it had drained him of all of his strength and energy. He closed his eyes and tried not to wince as he slightly shifted on his bed, which sent pain through his body.

"Are you alright, Grantaire?" he heard Marius ask quietly, in a way as if they had never been arguing at all. "Do you want me to go get the doctor?"

"No," Grantaire muttered.

"I think the doctor will be back soon," Marius said quietly, almost absentmindedly, as he looked over his shoulder to gaze at the edge of the curtain where he expected the doctor to reappear at any moment.

Grantaire opened his eyes and looked at Marius. "Marius…" Marius turned to meet his eyes. Grantaire no longer looked angry or frustrated. Instead, he looked sad and desperate. "Marius, we can't say here," Grantaire whispered. His voice had that same pleading tone that he had used when he was bleeding on the streets and begging Marius to let him go home. "We need to save Enjolras."

"We will," Marius promised him. "But first you need to get better. In a few days we will—"

"Marius, that's not good enough." Grantaire's voice was not angry, but it was firm, certain. "In a few days, Enjolras could be dead. What happens if we break into the prison and we find out that Enjolras was killed one day ago? That would mean that if we had left one day earlier, then we would have been able to save him." Marius did not reply, and by the look on his face Grantaire could see that he had reached Marius's heart. He went on, "Every minute we wait, is another minute that Enjolras has to suffer, and one more minute closer to his death. If we wait any longer, we will be too late."

Marius did not answer for a moment. Grantaire could tell that he was thinking. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh. "Alright," he said at last, speaking so quietly that it was difficult to hear him. Grantaire felt like a huge burdensome weight was lifted off his shoulders. He let out a heavy breath or relief.

Marius stood up from his chair and stood beside Grantaire's bed as he carefully rearranged the position of the thin blanket that covered him. "We will leave here at seven," Marius said. "That will give us more than enough time to get there." He used the damp cloth to gently dab Grantaire's face, cooling his temperature and wiping off his sweat. "In the meantime, you have about seven hours to sleep, so get some rest."

"I will…" Grantaire murmured, closing his eyes and letting out a heavy breath. But then, before he allowed himself to drift off to sleep, he added, "Wake me when it's time to go."

"I will," Marius said quietly. He sat back down in the chair beside Grantaire's bed and watched him as he fell asleep. Marius started thinking.

He was becoming a better liar. Even Grantaire was falling for his lies. Maybe, it was just because Grantaire was so weak, so sick, and so tired that he did not notice. But Marius had no intention of waking Grantaire in seven hours. Marius lied. But he could think of nothing else to do. Nothing he said would be able to change Grantaire's mind. They only way to keep him from leaving was to lie to him.

Marius was terrified of losing Grantaire. Three times already, he had thought that he had lost him. After the rebellion, after he first saw him bleeding, and after he and Monsieur Fauchelevant found him that night in the street. Now, Marius was not going to lose him again. Grantaire was all he had left. He could not risk losing him. This was the only way. So, Marius lied to Grantaire.

Now, Marius was afraid. For the last mouth, Grantaire had been lying to him. He told him that he was alright, that he was fine, that he did not need a doctor, and it was all a lie. Now, Marius had lied to Grantaire, too. They were both lying to each other. Who was to say that they would not continue to lie to each other? Then, how could the trust each other? And if they could not trust each other, how could they ever save Enjolras?

Not an hour later, Grantaire was woken back up with terrible pain shooting through body. The doctor had returned and was cleaning and reapplying medicine to his wound. It was terrible, hurt like a knife, and burned like fire in his flesh. Grantaire had to bite his teeth together to keep himself from moaning in pain. Then Grantaire was ordered to swallow some foul tasting liquid, which he drank hardly raising his head off the pillow. This whole time, he barely opened his eyes. After the doctor had wrapped him in clean bandages and then left him alone, Grantaire asked Marius what time it was. Marius told him that he still had several hours to rest, and in a few minutes Grantaire was asleep again.


	21. Chapter XXI

Chapter XXI

Enjolras was tied down to a stone floor and a being that looked like a man in figure, but could not have been human, was standing over him. This creature's face was dark and evil. But it was his eyes that denied him that he could not have been a man. His eyes were so pale it was as if all of the color had been washed out of them. When looking into this creature's eyes, one had the illusion that he could look straight through them, like dusty widows, and see objects on the other side. When looking into this being's eyes, one saw flashes of fire, of dark, ominous figures forming out of darkness and dragging themselves out of the abysses, and killing. The faces of innocent people being murdered, tortured. Flashes of weapons. Blood. Death.

This man, this demon, was torturing Enjolras, slowly cutting away parts of his body and then holding the dismembered parts over his head so that he had to look at them as his own blood dripped down into his face. Javert was standing at a distance watching was a stone face. It was Javert, but he was not the same. It was as if his appearance in Paris as an inspector was the mask that hid his true identity, and now that mask was gone and one could see what he really was. He was terrible, hideous, terrifying, like something straight out of hell.

Enjolras was trying not to scream as they mutilated him, destroyed him, killed him. But at last, the pain became too great to bear, and he began to cry out, begging for mercy. Begging for the man to simply kill him. But Javert knew no such thing as mercy. So, Enjolras continued to scream.

Grantaire was watching this happen, watching as they tortured Enjolras, murdered him. He wanted desperately to get to him, to save him, but he could not. It was as if some demon of the darkness had wrapped its terrible arms around him, restraining him, and he could not move. He tried to call out to Enjolras, but he could not speak either. There was nothing he could do. So he watched helplessly as the man, the creature, the demon finished Enjolras off by cutting his heart.

"No!" Grantaire yelled. He suddenly jumped up, trying to yank himself away from the grip of whatever was restraining him. Bright light hit him straight in his eyes, momentarily blinding him. Then, the light began to fade and his eyes darted frantically around, looking for Enjolras. But he was no where. For a moment, Grantaire did not know where he was and he looked stupidly around the room until he realized that he had been dreaming again and that he was still in the hospital.

He was sitting up in his bed, his lungs and his heart racing, sweat cover his body. He sat there staring at the curtains that hung around his bed as his heart and lungs began to slow to their normal speed. Then, a few moments later, he felt the pain in his side and he allowed his body to collapse back down onto the bed. Grantaire stared up at the ceiling, breathing deeply. He used his hand to wipe the sweat off of his face and he tried to keep himself from trembling. He felt lightheaded and shaking, contributions of the nightmare, the pain, and the lack of drinking. He closed his eyes, trying to force the gory images of his dream out of his head. But the bloody mess of Enjolras's body and the faces of the demons continued to flash before his eyes, whether they were open of close.

Grantaire opened his eyes again and stared at the red curtains around his bed. It suddenly accrued to him that he was alone, and he wondered where Marius had gone. _He'll probably be back in a few minutes, _Grantaire thought vaguely, not giving the matter too much thought. He was honestly glad that Marius was not there, that he had not seen him bolt wildly up in his bed and start looking for Enjolras. And he might have been crying out Enjolras's name in his sleep. He was not sure.

Grantaire let out a deep breath and forced his lungs to breathe slow, careful, and controlled as he struggled to get control over himself. He could hear the steady sound of rain falling, hitting the hospital roof above him. The room was peaceful. Quiet of all sound save for the gentle fall of rain. But he could not get those terrible images of Enjolras being torture out of his mind.

_It wasn't real… It was just a dream, _Grantaire told himself. _Enjolras is still alive… _

_Maybe, not. He could be dead for all you know, _a second voice seemed to say in his mind.

_I know, but I'm not going to give up. I think we would know if he wasn't…_

_Maybe, not._

_I don't care. I'm still not going to give up until I find him. _

The images of Grantaire's dream flashed before his eyes again. Grantaire closed his eyes and buried his face in his pillow. He was terrified. _It was just a dream! It was not real!_

_Yes, it was. They really are torturing Enjolras. Even if he's still alive, now, he won't be for long._

It was true. Grantaire knew it was true. Maybe, somehow, this dream was a warning. Warning him that he had to hurry, or he would be too late. _I have to find him… Tonight!_

Grantaire opened his eyes. The room was somewhat bright, even thought it was raining. It had to still be early. Probably about midday… Grantaire suddenly felt a pit form in his gut. He knew that something was not right. He had been sleeping for a long time. Instinct told him that he had slept more than five hours. And, although it was dark from the rain that fell outside, the light in the room told him that it was about midday. It should have been getting dark. It should have been time to go save Enjolras.

He sat up in his bed and looked around. There was no sign of Marius, or of anyone. Grantaire saw a clean white shirt folded on the table next to his bed. He quickly grabbed it and slipped his arms into the sleeves, not bothering to bottom it up. Then, he carefully dropped his legs over the side of his bed and stood up. For a moment, his head seemed to swirl in a confused blurry dizziness, but then it passed, and Grantaire started walking. He still felt bad and every step was painful. But in comparison to how he felt in the past, that night after they had the encounter with Javert or the first time he awoke in the hospital, Grantaire was feeling much better.

He pushed the curtains out of the way and stepped out into the open. He was standing in a narrow passage, on both sides of which there were red curtains, hiding the beds from view. Grantaire had no way of knowing in ever bed was filled, or if he was alone. Grantaire saw no one. He located the door at the end of the passage and he went to it. When he got closer to the door, he stopped and listened. He could hear voices speaking on the others side, speaking in hushed voices. Grantaire could not understand much of what they were saying, but he caught a little.

"I'm sorry, but there is nothing I can do about that…" one man was saying.

Someone answered him, but Grantaire could not hear what was being said. Although, at once, he knew who the voice belong to. Marius.

"I cannot hold him against his will," the other man replied to Marius. "If he wants to leave, I will have to let him…"

"But if he leaves he will die!"

There was a long moment of silence. Then, Grantaire pushed open the door. "Marius…"

Marius and the doctor both turned their heads at the same time. They saw Grantaire standing in the door way, looking in at them. A deep look of dread and fear passed over Marius's face. He glanced at the doctor, then he turned back to Grantaire and their eyes met. Marius let out a deep sigh and went to Grantaire.

Marius swallowed hard. "How are you feeling?" he asked quietly, offering a small smile.

Grantaire did not smile. "Not as bad as my friend feels right now."

Marius knew he was talking about Enjolras. He glanced over at the clueless doctor, who was watching them with confusion and concern. Marius did not reply.

"What time is it," Grantaire asked, turning to the doctor, as if he could not trust anything that Marius said to him.

"It is about… one-thirty, monsieur," the doctor answered, drawing out his pocket watch to check the time.

Grantaire nodded knowingly as he turned back to Marius. "That's what I thought." Marius had not woken him up. He had slept all night, and now it was the next day.

Marius looked nervously at Grantaire. His face was dark, like his voice. "I need to talk to you…" Marius said quietly. Grantaire nodded and turned to go back into the other room. With a quick nod to the doctor, Marius followed Grantaire into the other room. He shut the door behind him. Grantaire went back to the bed where he had been staying, getting far away from the door to ensure that no one on the other side would over here them. Marius followed him across the room without a word. At last, when Grantaire was standing beside the bed, he turned around to face Marius, his arms crossed in front of him.

"Is there anyone else in this room?" Grantaire asked Marius, his voice flat.

"No," Marius answered. "There was only one other person here, and he died last night." Grantaire did not speech. Marius hesitantly went on, "He was a soldier. Got shot in the leg. But what killed him was the infection. They thought he was going to be okay, but then when he was sleeping his fever got too high and he died. His wife was here, too. She never stopped crying. When he died she went hysterical and they had to take her away…" Marius's voice trailed off, as he thought about it. What he was say true. He had seen it all happen last night when Grantaire was sleeping. The memory upset him. Saddened him. But, even more, it scared him, because he knew that the same thing could happen to Grantaire.

The tone in Marius's voice, the look on his face, Grantaire could see that Marius was hinting, _The same thing will happen to you if you do not say here. You are not safe yet. You could still die. _

Grantaire's face became even darker and he glared at Marius. "Why didn't you wake me up, Marius?" he growled under his breath.

Marius dropped his eyes to the floor. "Grantaire, what choice did I have?" he whispered. "Last time I listened to you, you almost died. I'm not going to make that mistake again…" He looked back up to look at Grantaire.

"I thought I could trust you, Marius," Grantaire hissed merciless, pitilessly.

This took Marius aback. He felt like Grantaire had just slapped him in the face. His own friend was hurting him… "You… You can trust me, Grantaire!" Marius cried out, desperate and injured. "Of course you can—"

"No, I can't!" Grantaire suddenly snapped at him. "Marius, you lied. You lied to me."

"You lied to me, too!" Marius abruptly shot back at him, a sudden streak of anger bursting in him when he saw the injustice that was happening, and he felt the need to defend himself. "Ever since the beginning, you have been lying to me! You were not even going to tell me that you were hurt! You told me you were fine! You… You would be dead right now, if it was not for me!"

"Yes, and if it was not for you, Enjolras might be free right now."

This blow hit Marius even harder than the first. Not only was Grantaire angry with him, but now he was also blaming him. Saying that it was his fault Enjolras was still in suffering. "Grantaire, I—! I did not know what else to do!" Marius cried out. "I thought you were going to die! …You might have if I listened to you!"

"This isn't about me, Marius," Grantaire said. His voice was still angry, not had softened a little bit. "When I first saw Enjolras in front of all of those guns, I stood beside him so that I could die with him," he told him, emphasizing the words "so I could die with him." "I made my choice then that I would give my life to save Enjolras. I don't care if I die, Marius. But I'm going to do it trying to save Enjolras. Not lying in the bed of the hospital. Not here. Not now."

Marius stared at Grantaire, his face pale and scared. Several times Grantaire spoke the words, "I don't care if I die," and then when Grantaire said, "I'm going to do it trying to save Enjolras," it was almost as if he was declaring his own death. Saying, "I _am_ going to die." Now, Marius was terrified.

"But I care…" Marius said quietly. He was practically whispering. "Grantaire, I don't want you to die…"

Grantaire did not say anything, and Marius could see that his words made little difference to Grantaire. He had already made up his mind. And he was not going to change it. He turned and looked away from Marius. He walked past him, moving back out into the passage and starting towards the door.

Marius looked over his shoulder, to watch Grantaire leave. "Where are you going?" he asked quietly.

Grantaire stopped to turn around and face Marius. "To Paris." Marius felt a chill run down his body. "To save Enjolras…" Grantaire looked into Marius's eyes. "Are you coming?"

It was apparent in Grantaire's voice that he was going whether Marius came or not. Marius was scared. He suddenly rushed forward to stand at Grantaire's side, grabbing him by his arm. "Grantaire, you cannot go!" Marius cried out. "You need medicine—"

"I'm fine now, Marius. I don't need anything else," Grantaire interrupted.

"Yes, you do," Marius objected. "That other man died! You still need medicine—"

"Then tell the doctor to give it to us, and we'll bring it with us."

Marius shook his head. "You have to stay, Grantaire. What if you get worse again? Or what if your stitches come out again?"

"They won't."

"How do you know that?! You don't. It could happen, Grantaire. And then you'll die."

"I don't care, Marius! I'm going to save Enjolras, and if I die trying to do that then so be it!" Grantaire pulled his arm away from Marius. "I'm going. Are you coming or not?"

"No, you're not going!" Marius objected. He ran forward and stepped in front of Grantaire, blocking his way. "You can't go! I won't let you!"

"Get out of the way, Marius. I'm out of here."

"No," Marius put his hands on Grantaire and tried to push him back.

"Get off of me!" Grantaire snarled, throwing Marius away from him. Then he started forward, pushing past Marius and heading for the door.

"Wait! Grantaire! Just wait a minute!" Grantaire turned to look at Marius.

Marius looked at him confused for a moment. Why was Grantaire glaring at him? Grantaire never used to glare at him. Why was Grantaire yelling at him? Grantaire never yelled at him. Why was Grantaire acting like this? This did not seem like Grantaire, at all. The Grantaire he knew was happy and carefree. He never got angry. He always looked at life from a better perspective. It was very hard to catch him when he was not smiling and laughing. But now, Marius could not remember the last time he saw Grantaire smile. Grantaire was not the same. Ever since the revolution, Grantaire was not the same. Marius was not the same either. Nothing was the same. It would never be the same.

"Just… just wait for one minute…" Marius said desperately. "I'm… I'm going to ask the doctor for your medicine… Wait here I'll be back…"

Grantaire did not answer, but he did not object, so Marius hurried past him, out through the door and into the other room. The doctor was not there so he had to run across the room, down a narrow hallway, and into a third room. This is where Marius found the doctor. When he entered the room, the doctor turned to look at Marius.

"He wants to leave," Marius said at once. "He's trying to go. You need to do something!"

The doctor held up his hands helplessly. "There is nothing that I can do. If he wants to leave, that is his decision."

"But he'll die if he leaves!"

"Not as long as he takes care of himself. As long as he takes his medicine every three hours and frequently cleans the wound, he should be okay."

But Marius knew that Grantaire would not take care of himself. He was about to go risk everything he had to save Enjolras. "But… But he won't do any of that…"

"I'm sorry, monsieur," the doctor said, "but I cannot make him stay."

Marius let out a heavy breath, shaking his head. "Can you come with me, monsieur, and check him before we go? Give him his medicine?"

"Yes, I will," he agreed. Marius quickly led the man back through the hospital to the room where Grantaire was waiting. He went in and looked across the room. Grantaire was not there, so he assumed that he had gone back to his bed to wait. Marius went to Grantaire's bed and looked around the curtains, which were still thrown open. Grantaire was not there either.

Marius looked around in a panic. Grantaire had left. He was gone. "Grantaire?!" Marius called loudly. But there was no answer. Grantaire was gone. Marius turned back to look at Grantaire's empty bed, as if he might had somehow over looked the man lying in it. But Grantaire was gone.

Marius was about to turn around and run towards the door, when he noticed a small piece of paper sitting on the table beside the bed. At once, Marius seized it and stared down at the words that were written upon it. Written in Grantaire's messy script were the words:

_The cathedral in Paris. 9:00._

And that was all.


	22. Chapter XXII

Chapter XXII

Before Enjolras was beaten, he made Javert swear not to hurt Luc. Only then would Enjolras lower the blade from his throat. Javert had given him his word not to hurt the child. Not that Javert's word was worth anything. Enjolras did not trust a word Javert spoke. And Javert did not trust a word Enjolras spoke.

Enjolras fell to the ground, his body hitting into the stone with full impact. His own blood stained the ground where he fell. The pain of the lash was throbbing in his back. His pain pulsing through his body with his blood. Moving in a daze, Enjolras weakly lifted his head off from the stone ground. His hands moved and he lifted himself up with trembling arms. Hot blood ran down his arms and dripped onto the floor below him.

Javert was speaking, saying something from behind him. But Enjolras was not listening to anything that he was saying. He raised his eyes and looked across the room. Luc was still sitting in the corner, where Enjolras had instructed him to stay. The boy's face was pale, his eyes were wide and terrified, filled with the tears that ran down his cheeks and stained his face. Luc has watched the whole time. He watched them flog Enjolras so terribly that when 4461 hit him, blood busted out of him and showered down onto the stone like red rain. Luc never stopped crying.

Enjolras looked into Luc's eyes. The child was looking at him with sadness and horror, but there was also something else in his eyes. A desperate need for him.

"Luc…" Enjolras's voice emitted in a barely audible whisper.

This one word, the look on Enjolras's face, the light in his eyes told Luc that it was okay for him to move again. At once, the child jumped up and ran to Enjolras. As soon as he got to him, Enjolras reached out for the child and pulled him into his arms. Luc buried himself against Enjolras, clinging to him and burying his face against his body. As soon as Luc touched him pain shot through his body, but Enjolras only hugged the child tighter, holding him close, as if this could protect him, comfort him, and make everything alright.

Enjolras could hear Luc letting out quiet sobs as he tried to speak to him. "Enjolras…"

"It is alright," Enjolras said quietly, trying to hush the child. "It is going to be alright, now…" But Luc did not stop crying. Enjolras's blood was getting on the boy, staining his clothes.

Enjolras felt the guard grab him from behind, gripping his torn up body, and yank him to his feet, pulling him away from Luc. "No!" Luc cried weakly, his voice choked with sobs, as Enjolras was taken away from him.

"Luc, stay where you are," Enjolras ordered the child, but his own voice echoed through his head as if someone far away was shouting down long dark tunnel. Luc obeyed, sinking back on his knees and looking helplessly onto Enjolras. The guard carelessly pulled Enjolras's shirt back over his body, over the distorted mess of deep cavernous wounds, hot streams of blood, and strips of ripped flesh that hung like a tattered red flag from his back. Enjolras winced in pain as the fabric of his shirt slid over his wounds, and he struggled to keep himself from crying out. The pain became even worse seconds later when the guard laid his chains back upon his shoulders and secured the collar of metal around his neck.

Enjolras glanced over his shoulder. Aside from the guard that was locking his chains around him, a second guard, 4461, and Javert stood in the room. The guard looked upon Enjolras with a lifeless expression, like those on the faces of soldiers, 4461 looked at the floor, and Javert was watching him with careful penetrating eyes.

Enjolras's head seemed to fall forward so that he was no longer looking at them, rather than looking away on his own accord. A few moments later, the guard released him, and Enjolras fell back to the ground, catching himself on his hands and knees. Aside from the pain that was trembling through his entire body, his left leg was incapable of bearing any weight, as if it were dead. When he fell and his knee it the ground, his entire leg felt as if it had been lit on fire. The pain choked him, and before he was even able to breathe again the guard grabbed him again and pulled him up.

"Take the prisoners back to their cells," Javert ordered.

The guard nodded to Javert and pulled Enjolras toward the door. The second guard went crossed the room to take Luc by the sleeve of his shirt and lead him out behind the other guard and Enjolras. Javert followed close behind.

Enjolras tried to walk, but it was impossible. He could barely move his left leg, and even the slight touch of his bare toes against the stone floor sent pain, like bullets, shooting up through his leg and into the rest of his body. Enjolras tried to ignore the pain, and he tried to walk. But ever time he attempted to put any pressure, no matter how little, on his leg, it gave out from under him and the guard had to yank him upward to keep him from falling. With every step he attempted to take, it began more painful for him to move, more difficult for him to breathe, more difficult for him to see, more difficult for him to hear, more impossible for him to do anything but oblige to anything that the guard willed for him to for.

So, the guard dragged Enjolras down the dark corridors and back to the cell at the heart of the prison. A trail of blood was left smeared on the floor. When the reached the cell, Enjolras was on the verge of unconsciousness. With one hand, he opened the gate, and with the other hand he threw Enjolras into the cell. Enjolras hit face first into the stone ground.

Blood splatter out on the stone around him and pain cut through his entire body. But Enjolras barely noticed. As soon as he hit the ground, he pushed himself up and looked over his shoulder. By the time Enjolras had turned around, Luc was there, throwing his arms around him. At once, Enjolras opened is arms to pull the child close to him.

"Luc…" Enjolras's weak voice whispered. "Are you alright?"

"I'm not hurt, you are the one who is hurt," Luc's soft voice emitted from where he had buried his face in Enjolras's shoulder.

"But are you alright," Enjolras repeated, oblivious to his own pain.

"Yes, I am alright," the child answer. "But you are not—"

"I will be fine," Enjolras cut him off. "I am alright…"

For the first time, Enjolras slightly loosened his grip on Luc so that he could lean back and look the child in his face. His blue eyes were still filled with tears and they ran down his checks, staining his face red. He still looked scared, terrified, but he was not hurt. A deep relief filled Enjolras, and he pulled the child to him again, clutching Luc tightly against his body, hugging the boy with one arm and with his other hand, holding the child's head to his shoulder. Enjolras grasped the child as if he were his life. As if, as long as this child was not hurt, Enjolras could not be hurt, either.

Enjolras found himself closing his eyes and thanking God for keeping this boy safe. Then as he held the child, in the midst of this terrible pain, he actually smiled. Luc was safe and that was all that mattered. So, Enjolras was happy.

Enjolras was not hurt. His body was breaking, but his heart was still stronger than it ever had been before. It was all true. Luc was Enjolras's life. His world. His strength. His courage. His hope and his future. As long as Enjolras still had this innocent, helpless little child, he would remain brave. He would remain strong. And he would be unbreakable.

Luc never let go of Enjolras. The child might have stayed this way, holding him forever, if Enjolras had not finally broken away from their embrace. Luc was still crying. Enjolras could hear the boy's quiet sobs smoothed by his body.

"Luc, look at me," Enjolras said to the child.

As he always did everything that Enjolras told him to do, Luc looked up and met Enjolras's eyes. Tears gleamed in Luc's eyes, rising up in them so that they were in danger of spilling out onto his cheeks. He was scared and confused. In his eyes, Enjolras could see that he still did not understand anything that had happened. And because he could not understand what was happening, he chose to believe anything that Enjolras told him. What Enjolras told him made him believe that all of this was his fault. That Enjolras was hurt because of him.

Enjolras could see this in the child's eyes. "Luc, it is not your fault," Enjolras said sternly, looking straight into the child's eyes, not looking away from even a second, not even blinking.

The tears spilled out of Luc's eyes and continued to run down his face. "But… I thought you said that…"

"I know what I said, but it was not true."

"Then… then why did you say that?" Luc whispered, sad and confused. He did not understand why Enjolras would say such a thing to him, if it was not true. He trusted Enjolras and loved him, and he believed every word that he said.

"Luc, listen to me," Enjolras said quietly. Luc listened. "Nothing was your fault. I only told you that because I needed you to listen to me." Luc looked up at Enjolras, and Enjolras looked back into his eyes, for a long moment, as if some unspoken understanding passed between them. "Do you understand?" Enjolras finally asked in a voice so quiet that he could barely be heard.

Luc waited a moment before he answered, looking into Enjolras's eyes. "No." Enjolras felt a pang of sadness and regret. Luc "But I trust you… and I believe you…"

At these words a deep feeling of happiness and relief filled Enjolras, like warm sun rising and melting away the frost of the night. He leaned forward to hug the child again. "Why did they do that to you?" Enjolras heard Luc whisper. "Why did they hurt you?"

Enjolras did not know how to answer the child. He could not tell him the truth, because it was too dangerous. The more than Luc knew, the more that he understood, the more danger he was in, because then Javert might hurt Luc to try to get to admit everything Enjolras had told him. Enjolras broke away from their embrace so that he could look Luc in his eyes.

"Luc, listen to me," Enjolras said quietly. "A lot of difficult times are ahead or us, and I do not know what is going to happen. But you are just going to have to trust me."

"I do trust you," Luc whispered.

"I am going to need you to listen to me," Enjolras told him. "Do everything I say, even if you do not understand why." He paused for a moment and added in a grave voice, "Even if it means staying away and not trying to stop them. Let them do what they want to me."

Luc did not speak.

"Do you think you can do that for me?" Enjolras asked quietly. "I need you to do this for me."

Luc nodded. "Yes…"

Enjolras returned the nod. "Thank you."

"But why were they hurting you?" Luc asked again, still very upset.

"It does not matter," Enjolras said, and it was clear to Luc that he would not receive and answer.

"Yes, it does; they were hurting you!" Luc protested.

"I will be alright," Enjolras assured the child. "As long as you are alright, I will be alright, as well."

When Enjolras spoke these words, Javert knew that he was right.

Javert stood outside of the prison cell and looked in through the bars. Enjolras did not notice because he was too busy with Luc, but Javert had been standing there the entire time, looking in at him with a hunter's eyes. He watched Enjolras. He watched the child. He was thinking.

Despite everything that had just happened, despite that Enjolras's body was torn and bleeding, that he had just been beaten half to death, that he and the child were doomed to spend the rest of their lives in this cold, dark prison, Enjolras did not seem to care about anything except this little boy. And he did not. Javert could see that as long as this child was alive, Enjolras could not be touched. Javert could beat him, flog him, torture him as much as he willed, but that would do nothing. Enjolras would never talk to him so long as he was sill whole. Enjolras would never talk to him unless he and everything that he was had been taken from him. So long as this child was still alive, Enjolras would remain strong. Enjolras would be unyielding, indestructible, and unbreakable. But Javert needed him broken.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter XXIII

It was a dark day. The sky was covered by a blanket of grey clouds. The entire city seemed to have a grey look about it. Rain was steadily falling, slapping against houses and shattering like pellets of glass when they hit the stone pavement. Narrow rivers ran down the streets and dark pools formed at the ends of the roads and by the corners of buildings. Not many people were on the streets, and those that were hurried quickly on their ways, their eyes down, their heads shelter by large hats, and their faces nuzzled into their coats.

A carriage, pulled by a pair of black horses, rolled down the streets. Marius sat in the back. He peered out through the dusty window, and he watched the raindrops slap the glass as the streets of Paris rolled by. He glanced down to look at the little slip of paper that he clutched tightly in his hands and reread the words written on it, as if some answer might have somehow appeared upon it. Grantaire had given him the time to meet him at the cathedral, nine o'clock, but he had given no implications on where he would be before that time.

Marius was trying to think. He had been trying to think ever since he had found the carriage and left the hospital, but it was impossible. Too many other thoughts occupied his mind. The thought of Grantaire and everything that could go wrong. The thought that he would get sick again and he would die. The thought that his stitches might rip and he would die. The thought that the police might find him, arrest him, torture him, and kill him, so, again, he would die. Or even worse, the thought Grantaire would disappear. That Marius would not find him at the cathedral and that he would never see Grantaire again. This was the same fear that Marius had when Grantaire talked about going into the prison by himself. Grantaire would just vanish and Marius would not know if he had been killed, arrested, or whatever else. Then Marius would be alone with no where to go and no one to help him find his way out of the dark.

Right now, Marius was trying to decide where to go to. He could not go back to his grandfather's house; that was already obvious. He did not think he could risk going to his house or to Grantaire's house; by this time, Javert was bond to have discovered where they were located, by questioning Enjolras or simply by questioning citizens on the streets. Then, Marius could go back to Monsieur Fauchelevant's house, but at the thought of that, though he was not certain why, his stomach began to twist into a knot. After a moment, he realized that it was Cosette. He could not bear to see her again. He could not bear to see her if he could not hold her. It would be too painful for the both of them. So, what other options did he have? He could go to any pubs or shops in Paris, but everywhere where there were other people, there was the risk of being seen and recognized by inspectors or by any citizens that might turn him in. Marius did not know where to go.

He wondered where Grantaire would go, and he began to worry again, as all the possible mishaps that could result in Grantaire's death returned to his mind. Marius shook these thoughts out of his head. Worrying would not make things any better. After all, Grantaire was a resourceful man, and he knew his way around the city. Marius was sure that Grantaire would find a safe place to stay. But he was still afraid, so, as an alternative to this terrible worrying, Marius started praying.

"Where is your destination, monsieur?" The driver turned around and spoke through the little window that allowed him to look back at Marius.

Marius thought for a moment. Now, he would have to decide. He had waited too long already. He tried to quickly search his mind for a safe place to go. A place where Javert would not think to look for him. But he could not think clearly under all of his stress, fear, and anticipation, and he ended up deciding on what was probably the worst place that he could have gone.

A few minutes later, the carriage stopped. Marius paid the driver, grabbed the little leather case, which contained Grantaire's medicine, and stepped out onto the wet streets, pulling his hat low over his face and ducking his head down to his chest to keep it from being pelted by raindrops. He glanced up at the building that stood before him. He knew that this was not a wise idea, but it was all that he could think of, and the carriage behind him was already pulling away.

It was summer, but still it was cold. The rain hit Marius like pellets of ice, sinking through his clothes, soaking his skin, making shivers run through his body. So, Marius started forward, walking slowly towards the door of the large building. The city around him was dark and cold, but the light of lanterns and candles fell through the tightly drawn shutters of this building, as if inviting him in. Marius started forward, and as he did, a confusing of feelings sank into Marius and the result was a terrible sensation in his stomach, which made him feel sick. This place was so full of memories, both good and terrible. When Marius came to this place last time, it was as if to say goodbye. A funeral is held so a man can say goodbye to his an old friend, recall good memories of the past, love him, grieve for him, then leave him, and try to forget him. When Marius left this place, he did not intend to return to it. But now, here he was returning, all the same.

This was the café where he and his friends used to meet. Where they rallied the people. Where they build the barricade. Where they fought the battles. Where his friends had all been killed. Where Enjolras was captured. Where Grantaire was shot. Where Marius mourned for his dead friends. Where Grantaire found him and restored him to life. Where they had left together, to leave the place behind them. But where Marius was now returning to.

Marius opened the door and went in. The tables that had been taken for the barricade replaced and the blood stains scrubbed off the floor, the café was open again, having forgotten about the young boys that used to fill it each night. The sound of many voices speaking in low tones came to his ears and he raised his eyes. Although he knew it was impossible and his mind told him already that it was not so, some deep part of his mind or soul that had not yet learned to let go of the past expected to see all of his friends sitting at the tables, looking up at him, greeting him with smiles and laughs, and asking him why it had taken him so long to finally join them. But when Marius looked up, there were not many people in the café and those that were, he did not know. The only faces that he recognized were the faces of Madame Hucheloup, who owned the café, and her two servants, who the boys called Chowder and Fricassée, a woman who Grantaire was commonly seen sitting with when he was drinking at the café. But all three of these people were too busy serving the customers to even glance up at Marius.

Marius quickly turned his back to them so that they would not see him and recognize him. He quickly glanced over the café and, seeing no inspectors about, proceeded to go upstairs, down the hallway, and into the room where he and his friends used to meet. He quickly scanned the room until his eyes came to rest on the table in the corner. There was a time when this table was always full. Grantaire always sat in that chair in the far corner, and in the chairs around him sat his friends. Now, the table was empty.

Marius noiselessly crossed the café and went to this table. He sat down, his back turned to the room so that his face was only in the view of the dark walls before him. No one seemed to notice him, and Marius sat alone at the table, staring at the little orange flame that flickered atop the melted wax candle that sat in the center of the table. He could not get Grantaire off of his mind. There were so many things that could go wrong...

Marius remained this way for a long time, sitting still, looking into the candle as his mind wandered and worried. Several hours passed this way before Marius stirred at all. Several times, the thought of going out to look for Grantaire, but he always decided against it. He knew that he would ever find him. Grantaire would be somewhere that no one would think to look. Going to look for him would only name things worse, too many things could go wrong. When he heard the cathedral clock strike seven, Marius still did not move, but at the half-hour, he got up and went soundlessly through the café, and he left unnoticed.

Outside, it was still raining it not as heavily as it had been when Marius first entered Paris. Marius walked down the street with his head down, watching his feet as they side across the stone pavement, glassy and shimmering in the rain as the lights of the houses touched it. It only took about twenty minutes before Marius had reached the cathedral. It was ten minutes until the hour. Marius raised his eyes and looked up at the cathedral standing before him, strong and proud, like the place of kings. That same cross remained that had lead Marius to Monsieur Fauchelevant at the very highest peek looked over the city.

Tonight was Thursday. There was no service, and there would be no one in the chapel. Save for Marius. He approached the front doors and went in. The entire place was empty and dark, but there were two lit candles sitting upon the altar, giving off a faint yellow light, but it was enough to see through the darkness. Rows of empty pews sat silently in line, one after another, slanting at an angle so that there was a long isle down that went through the center of the church and led to the altar. Above the altar, hung a larger-than-life sized sculpture of the cross.

Marius stood at the door for a moment before he went into the chapel. Every step he took echoed through the empty church, spreading across the pews, up the walls, and up into the high ceiling, which seemed to reach into the heavens.

As all human beings have a set of senses that inform them of things that would be otherwise impossible to know. The way a mother knows where her child is in danger, even if she is worlds away from the child. The way a man feels the presence of another unseen being. The way a man knows when he is being watched. The way he knows when he is not alone.

Marius felt this instinct now. He was alone, clearly alone, for he was the only one in the church, but, somehow, he did not feel that he was alone. He could sense the presence of another being around him. He could feel a set of careful eyes watching him. Marius looked over his shoulder, expecting to see another human's face. But there was no one there. He quickly looked around, searching for a citizen that had come to the church to pray, a priest that had come to worship, an inspector that had come to arrest him… But there was no one there. He was alone.

Marius reluctantly continued forward, looking around the church, searching for any other living being. He came to the pew in the very back of the church, and he sat down. A few moments later, the clock rang from somewhere deep within the heart of the cathedral and the low, strong yet beautiful, sound of the bells began to echo through the church, and seemed to the shake the world like thunder, the church around him and the earth beneath his feet. The clock sounded eight times. Grantaire would not come for another hour.

The bells stopped ringing, the reverberating echo faded from the halls, and, at last, the church fell silent, once more. Marius sat still and silent. He tried to calm himself and relax so that he could think. But no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, the maddening sensation that someone was watching him continued to torment him. At last, Marius could bear it no longer. He abruptly raised his head and furiously looked around the church.

There was no one. No one! _This is mad! I am alone! _Marius told himself, but even as he thought this, he did not stop looking around. But he was alone, and at last, he gave in and turned to look back down at his feet. He looked one more time over his shoulder. He turned his head back to the front of the church, and he found himself staring straight back into a pair of eyes.

Marius felt an icy chill run down his body, giving him goose bumps, stopping his heart, turning his blood to ice. These eyes that were watching him were of endless depth, full of wisdom, knowledge, strength, and power. They seemed to look straight through him, seeing everything, seeing his mind, seeing his heart, seeing his soul. There was no way of hiding. No way of escaping this man's deep gaze that saw not the body, but the soul.

Marius stared back into these eyes, too afraid to move, and he felt his heart pounding in his chest. After several moments, he tried to get control over himself. He was not even looking at the face of a real man. It was the statue. The image of Jesus Christ hanging on the cross at the front of the church.

Marius knew that it was only a statue. It was not real. But when he looked upon it, he had no doubt that he was really being watched. This statue was fashioned by the best artists and craftsmen in all of France, and it looked so real. No matter where Marius turned, those eyes seem to be watching him, following him.  
There was no way of hiding. God was always watching him…

Marius knew that not this statue, but Christ, himself, was watching him. The Lord knew everything. Saw everything. Had His hand over everything.

Marius stopped trying to escape Him. He raised his eyes to look up at the Crucifixion. The man hanging on the cross had bloody lash marks all over his body, a deep bleeding wound in his ribs, nails through his hands and his feet, a crown of thorns places upon his head. He was crucified like a criminal. Despised, rejected, laughed at, and scorned. Tortured and beaten. Forced to carry His own cross to the hill of Calvary. Then, He lay upon it while the true sinners drove long metal nails through His hands. The cross was raised. He saw His mother a last time. He died. Then, His Father had to pour out His wrath upon His own Son, leaving Him to suffer in the forlorn darkness of hell. Not until three days later did Christ rise again and accent to Paradise, where He was now seated, looking over the earth.

Marius stared at the cross, and the innocent Lamb hanging upon it, and he did not understand. Jesus, the Holy Son of God, a perfect man, the only man that he never sinned, the only man deserving the gift of eternal life, the only man not deserving the punishment that befalls one who has broken the Devine Law of He the Most High, the only man who was worthy to see the face of God, willing gave up His life and died in the most terrible way possible. He did this so that all of His children would not have to suffer the same thing. He took the punishment in their place. So that anyone who turns to Him will never die.

Marius could not understand why He would do this for such sinners as the wretches of the earth. He thought about it, but, for a long time, he could not find an answer. So, he tried to decide what might motivate a man, any man, to do such a thing. To give up his own life to save another's. In the end, he could come up with only one answer. Love.

Love is the only thing more powerful than darkness.

Love is the strongest thing possible for a man to possess. It is the one thing that no force of man, nor power of hell, nor physical pain, nor suffer can take away for a man. A man can be beaten, tortured, ruined until his body is destroyed, he can be forced to do anything, but cannot be forced to stop loving someone. Love is strong, unbreakable, unyielding. Love is the one thing that will motivate a man to make the ultimate sacrifice.

Love was the reason that Grantaire stood next to Enjolras and was willing to die with him. The reason Grantaire was willing to die in Enjolras's place. The reason Marius was willing to make that same sacrifice. The reason they were both risking everything that they had left for their friend. Love was the reason Jesus laid down his life from His children.

But, love, it seemed to Marius, was also dangerous. Love could drive a man to do rash things. Run madly to his death, or purposely sacrifice his own life for another. Love was blind. It could drive a man mad. It could compel a man to throw away his trying to save his loved one. And it could even drive him to kill himself, if he lost the one he loved. Yes, love was a wonderful blessing. But it was also be a curse. More dangerous and treacherous than any weapon.

Marius looked up at the cross and onto the face of Christ. He wondered if Jesus really looked anything like the man he was looking at now. He beheld this image with a sort of deep awe. How much greater would this awe be when, im the end, he would finally look upon the face of the true and living Son of God.

"Lord," Marius prayed, whispering allowed into the church. "I know you love me… Please, hear me now. Please, help me now. I need You to help me. I cannot do this on my own…" He closed his eyes so that he was no longer speaking to the statue, but speaking to, wherever He was, the true and everlasting Lord. "Please, do not let Grantaire die. Do not let Enjolras die. Deliver us all from this darkness. Guide us with Your light."


	24. Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXIV

Enjolras could feel Luc clinging to his side, holding him tightly, as if he was afraid that Enjolras would slip away from him if he let go.

Enjolras did not know hoe long it had been before he finally sensed that someone was watching him, and he looked over his shoulder to see Javert standing outside of the cell, looking in at him with dark, terrible eyes. From that moment, Enjolras was terrified. In that one glance, he could see what Javert was thinking. He knew that Javert would hurt Luc to try to get Enjolras to talk.

At first, Enjolras was like a helpless animal caught in a trap that did not know what to do. He panicked and did not know what to do. But in short time, he knew that there was only one thing that he could do. He had to get Luc out. Somehow, they were going to have to get out of this prison. They were going to have to escape.

Then, Enjolras's mind began to turn. A fire was kindled in his soul, burning in his mind, his heart, his entire being. For two days, he was absorbed by nothing but the thought of escaping. It possessed his mind, blazed in his soul, beat with his heart. This was the same way the passion or revolution had been his only aim so long ago when he was fighting for the people's freedom. Now, Enjolras had something ever more important to fight for. The freedom for this little child.

On the third day, Enjolras had come up with a plan. It was a long gamble and the odds of succeeding were the same odds that the Friends of the ABC had of succeeding when they built the barricade and dove into battle. But that did not stop them from trying then, and it would not stop Enjolras from trying now.

Enjolras had briefly explained his plan to Luc, but had not told him how risky, how dangerous, and how impossible the task would actually be. He did not tell him of the consequences that they would have to suffer if they failed.

As soon as Enjolras mentioned escape, Luc's face lit up and he had stolen the boy's full attention. At once, Luc wanted to know everything. Every detail. Every possibility. Enjolras was surprised to learn that this child was actually very smart and had good ideas to contribute to his plan. Enjolras, who had considered telling the boy nothing, had benefited greatly from his hushed discussing with Luc, and at the end of the third day, they were both ready to act. Now, they were just waiting. Waiting for the right time. Waiting to act…

"Enjolras…" Luc whispered.

Enjolras looked down to see the anxious, nervous, yet exited, face that looked back up into his. "Yes?"

"Are you sure this is going to work?" Luc asked quietly.

Enjolras was not sure of anything. In fact, he was more certain that this would _not_ work. But they still had to try. This was their only hope. And Enjolras would hold onto this hope like a lifeline, fight for it more fiercely than he once fought in the revolution, and never let go of it. Never let go until the end.

"No," Enjolras answered. He was not going to lie to the child. Luc deserved to know the truth. Luc looked fearfully up at Enjolras, but in return, he just smiled and whispered encouragingly, "But we still have to try! With God on our side…" Enjolras grinned, "…we may succeed."

Seeing Enjolras's bold face, hearing his fearless voice, a smile spread across Luc's face. "Maybe…" the child said, almost dreamily, as if he was envisioning a world where he was free again. Free from imprisonment, from hunger, from pain, from fear, from suffering. Free to be with Enjolras forever.

Luc curled up next to Enjolras again, clutching him even more tightly then before. Enjolras felt pain cutting through his back and ribs, but he did not react in any way. Anything touching him, Luc, the wall he was leaning against, the light brush of the fabric of his shirt shifting over his wounds hurt him terribly. But Luc hugging him made him feel warmer and happier and outweighed the pain. He could barely feel it at all.

Enjolras tightened his arm around Luc's little boy, holding him tighter. For a long time, the two of them sat this way, holding each other tightly, like to doomed souls who grasping each other in desperation to share every last second together before the final trumpet of judgment day sounded. Enjolras holding the child, Luc nuzzled against Enjolras, his head resting against his chest.

Luc began to fall asleep, and Enjolras could feel him loosening his grasp on him. Enjolras let go of the child's shoulder, and his hand hesitantly began to stroke the child's back with the tips of his fingers. Enjolras stared at the stone wall across from him. When he first met Luc, the child sat against this wall, too afraid to get close to Enjolras. Now he was snuggled up beside him, trusting him and loving him. Enjolras was the only thing that the child had. And Luc was the only thing that Enjolras had. He could not lose him.

"It will all be alright," Enjolras whispered to the sleeping child. His voice was so soft and it quivered slightly when he spoke. Enjolras had never loved anything the way he loved this little child. He had never been more afraid of anything than the way he feared losing him. "I will never… _never_ let anything hurt you," Enjolras whispered. "I have to protect you, because I do not know what I would do without you…" Enjolras let out a heavy sigh. "I will never let anything hurt you," he swore again. "I promise you on my own life… I promise you…"

Another hour passed and Enjolras heard the guards making their final patrols of the night, going through the corridor, glancing at the prisoners and then locking the heavy doors that would block them off from the rest of the prison. Enjolras could feel his heart begin to pound with excitement. The time was growing nearer…

Enjolras felt the urge to do it now. To leap into action and begin his plan, at once. But no. He would have to wait. Waiting was essential to the success of the entire plan. He had to wait… Enjolras closed his eyes, and leaned against the wall trying to relax, but he was unable to get his heart to stop racing or his stomach to stop squirming. Anticipation was torment. He did not know how this night would end. There was the chance that it would work. There was the chance that he would be beaten. There was the chance that he would be dead.

Enjolras waited for what he was sure had to be nearly an hour before he knew it was time. "Luc…" he whispered quietly, and he gently nudged the child to wake him up. "Luc, it is time."

Luc tiredly opened his eyes and looked up at Enjolras. "It is time?" he repeated, still very sleepy. Then, all at once, he suddenly remembered and he was wide awake. He bolted up, sitting straight and stiff. "It—It's time now?!" he cried out in anxiety and fear.

Enjolras nodded confidently, and Luc's doubts were vanquished by Enjolras's certainty. "Yes," Enjolras said. Enjolras got up, and Luc had to let go of him. "You stay here," Enjolras told Luc, and Luc had already promised to obey anything that Enjolras told him to do.

"But… I want to go with you," Luc said quietly.

Enjolras quickly shook his head. "I will tell you when you can come join me. But, as of now, I need you to stay where you are." Enjolras was about to leave their hiding place, but then he had a sudden thought and turned back to Luc. "And if something goes wrong…" Enjolras could see that Luc wanted to help if anything went wrong, but he could not allowed such a thing. "Stay hidden."

Enjolras turned away and left Luc alone in the corner. He slipped out into the rest of the cell so that he was he could see the other prisoners and they could see him. Enjolras looked around the dark cell. It was very difficult to see. Only the eyes of the prisoners, which were adapted and to constantly seeing through the darkness, could make out the faces of them around them. Enjolras could see the other men slumped around the cell, some of them sleeping but most of then just sitting there still but awake, like statues peering into the darkness. None of them seemed to notice Enjolras.

Enjolras swallowed and took a deep breath. It was now or never…

"Citizens!" Enjolras called out into the darkness, speaking in a loud voice that echoed as it bounced around the stone walls of the prison. He waited for a reply, but none came. So, he went on, "I need you all to listen to me… Listen to me!" Now, many of the prisoners began to raise their head to glare at Enjolras with dark, angry faces. "Everybody, listen to me!" Enjolras ordered out again, ignoring the scolding faces that peered at him through the darkness.

Now, all the prisoners were beginning to cast dark eyes at Enjolras. As Enjolras looked around the cell, his eyes fell upon the trio of prisoners, led by the man with the broken nose. They were looking at Enjolras with a sort of deep hatred, and the looked to be on the verge of jumping up and beating Enjolras to unconsciousness so that they could continue to rest without being disturbed.

"What the hell do you want?!" one of the prisoners snarled as he sprang to his feet and threatening advanced on Enjolras.

Enjolras immediately turned to the man. The prisoner was nearly upon him, but he did not draw back. "I have something to offer you," Enjolras said to the man, speaking in a voice that was strong and sure, deep and powerful, with power to move, to fight, and to destroy, like the sea. "Can offer you all something far greater than any of you could hope for."

"Is that so?" a second prisoner, who had gotten to his feet, asked in disbelief. "And what is that?"

Enjolras turned to look into this man's eyes. "Your freedom."

At these two words, Enjolras saw something flash across the prisoner's face. Surprise, longing, desire, a desperate hunger, and an anxious hope. But it all quickly vanished and the man's face again became harsh and hard.

Enjolras turned to address all of the prisoners. "I offer you a chance of escape."

At the mention of "escape" a dim light illuminated the stone faces of every man in this cell. A chance of escape to these men was a chance for the dead man to break free of the agonizing pain and darkness of hell and get a second chance to live again. No matter how skeptical or hateful they were of him, Enjolras had captured the attention of every man in the cell. Even the three men that Enjolras had fought with raised their heads in interest. The men, who had been slumped against the walls, or burying their faces in their bodies, were now sitting up straight, their eyes fixed steadily on Enjolras, who stood before them, elevated like a man on a pedestal. They were all listening.

"Escape in impossible," one of the prisoners said quietly. But even as he denied him, there was a thrill in his voice, a hope that Enjolras would somehow be able to prove him wrong. "The chains are heavy, and these walls are strong. And the guards are like hunter, and we are but dogs. There is no way out."

"Aye," a deep low voice muttered out from the darkness. This voice seemed to reflect years of age, knowledge, and wisdom. Enjolras turned his head to see who was speaking, and he found himself looking onto the face of a man who sat alone in the corner of the cell, a man who was far more advanced in years than any other man in this entire prison.

Everything about this man was like that of an ancient tree. This man's body was old and slightly bent, but it was also strong, the strength of his youth still lingering in his veins. His face was old and lined with age, like creases in the skin of the elderly tree. The beard on his face was long and white as snow. But the true wonder of this man was found in his eyes. When Enjolras looked into them, he perceived that he was looking into a well of endless depth, within which was the knowledge and wisdom of all of his years. But like all of the men in this jail, the man's soul was darkened by misery and the light had faded from his eyes. Now, the life of the oldest tree in all of the forest was slowly fading, and the tree was dying from the inside out. His soul was dead, but his body would remain in this word for a very long time, left to slowly rot away over countless years until nothing remained save for the skeleton of a once majestic being.

When first looking upon this man, Enjolras—though, he, himself, was not quite sure why—was filled with a sort of deep awe and admiration, as if he were gazing upon a great king of old, one to be honored and respected, as well as feared. When in reality, he knew that he was looking at no more than a convict of the lowest step in the staircase of society.

The most men in this cell, as Enjolras had soon understood, were bitter and hateful. Their hearts beat only for themselves, and their souls had withered away into the dark oblivion that now possessed their entire beings. But when this old man spoke, when the other men turned to look at him, Enjolras could see that even the most cold-hearted men amongst them, even the prisoner with the broken nose, accepted their statue below this old prisoner. They respected him as a noble above them all.

"Many of men have attempted it before, but they always fail," the old man said quietly, his voice like the branches of an old tree softly creaking as they churned in the wind. A murmur of forlorn agreement passed amongst the prisoners.

"Yes, but all of those men were alone," Enjolras said, looking into this old prisoner's eyes. Looking away to address all of the prisoners, he went on, "In all of the escape attempts of the past, one man tried to run while the rest of us"—Enjolras intentionally used the word "us" to show the prisoners that he was on their side, that he was one of them, that they had to stand together as a whole—"stood in the shadows and watched from a distance. If one man has all of the guards, the inspectors, the army against him, then of course he id going to be defeated. But if he had more on his side…"

Enjolras looked anxiously at the faces around him, excitement growing in his voice, blazing in his eyes, waiting for them to reply.

"So what do you propose we do?" one of the prisoners questioned Enjolras.

Enjolras drew in a deep breath and began. "We need to fight as one force. If we stand together then we will have a chance. We are more numerous than them." Enjolras turned his eyes to look at the prisoner whose nose he had broken. "And we are stronger than them."

"And what do we have to fight them?" one of the men in this same three angrily questioned Enjolras. "Our bare hands? They have guns, and clubs, and whips, and axes… They cannot be defeated by the likes of us." All of the prisoners seemed to agree, nodding their heads and muttering under their breath.

"We do not need to defeat them," Enjolras said, shaking his head. "All we have to do is get past them long enough to get out of the jail. Then, we are free."

"Even if we do manage to get out of this jail, they will only find us, and catch us, and bring us back here to rot."

"Perhaps," Enjolras agreed. "But perhaps not. If you are resourceful enough and _wise_ enough, then you may be able to outwit them." Nobody replied. They seemed to be taking everything that had happened into consideration. Bursting force with all of his courage, excitement, and passion, Enjolras looked into the eyes of every man around him and he said, "And I ask this of all of you: even if we fail, if they catch us and throw us back into this prison, what have we lost? For, what have to lose?"

There was no answer.

"Do you not see, messieurs?!" Enjolras cried out, and at the address "messieurs" Enjolras could see the dark faces of many of these men brighten. "We have to at least try. If we succeed or fail it will matter very little, so long as we make an attempt."

For a moment, the prisoners just stared back at Enjolras, not saying anything. Then, a man behind him spoke. "Now, tell me," the man began in a low, doubtful, yet not cruel, voice, "what is this plan of yours?" Raising his brows he added, "Surely, you do have a plan?"

"Yes," Enjolras said. He drew in a deep breath, trying not to show his worry, and began, "The first step is getting out of this cell. So long as we work together, this will be easy."

"Is that so?" a voice cried out mockingly. Enjolras turned to see that it was one of the two accompanies of the broken-nosed prisoner. "I, myself, have attempted to break out of here several times, and_ I_ have never succeeded!" The man leaned back and cast terrible eyes onto Enjolras, making him feel uncomfortable as this man looked him up and down, sized him up, as if he were looking at something weak and pitiful. At last, he spoke, "What makes you think you will be able to get out if I could not?"

"Because you were alone…"

"Nay!" the man immediately objected. "Both Bardon and Jarreau were in this plan with me," the man said, motioning to the prisoner beside him, Bardon, and the other man, whose nose broken, and who was easily the strongest man in this entire prison, Jarreau. "We are three of the strongest men in this jail," the prisoner went on. "Yet,_ we_ could not escape. What makes you think that you and your plans are so much better than our?"

Enjolras shook his head. "Three is not enough. If we are to escape, it will require all of us, down to the last man."

"Alright, then!" one of the prisoners cried out in annoyance. "Best get on with it! What is this plan that you are proposing?!"

Enjolras began in a low, grave voice, "We must defeat them by playing to their weaknesses, and out strengths. This will give us the advantage. When we are fed each day, only one guard comes. He unlocks the gate, throws in a few loaves of bread, and as we fight like beasts for a scrap of food, he locks the gate and leaves us. This is an utterly foolish act that they have committed. What they have done is place one man, unaware and unexpected, with no ready weapons, against all of us." Enjolras moved his eyes to look around at all of the faces that peered up at him with pondering eyes. A dark bitterness, that of which comes into the heart of a man when he is willing to pay a terrible price, came into Enjolras voice and he said coldly, "One young, stupid, defenseless man against a multitude of us. Us criminals. Us murders. Kidnappers, rapists, thieves, killers, traitors."

"I am no murderer!" a man suddenly cried out, leaping to his feet, and looking into Enjolras's face with harsh eyes. "I was not given a fair trial nor was I given a fair sentence! I don't deserve _this!_" The man looked wildly at the prison around him, aggressively throwing his arms about. "I am an innocent man!"

The prisoner fixed his eyes on Enjolras, and Enjolras looked back at him, into his eyes. After a moment, he opened his mouth and spoke. "I believe you."

This seemed to greatly surprise the man. Ever since he was accused of murder, out of all of the times that he had proclaimed his story and swore to be innocent, never had anyone spoken these words to him. Now, he looked at Enjolras with a sort of new wonder, and he began to think that this young prisoner might be someone who he could follow.

"I know that many of the people in this prison are innocent," Enjolras proclaimed, turning to address all of the men. As Enjolras said this, he was thinking about Luc. "The law is not justice, and justice is not just. Many of us have been imprisoned unjustly. And that is even more reason why we have to escape."

Enjolras then went on with his plan, "When the guard comes to feed us, he will unlock the gate, open it, and then throw the bread into the cell. But instead of swarming upon the food and fighting each other for it, we will swarm upon the gate, and we will get out. The guard will be powerless to stop us.

The prison fell silent as the men seemed to be thinking this over. The plan seemed reasonable. Possible. Even probable. "Very well," one of the prisoners finally said. "Once we have gotten out of our cell, what is your plan? We still have the entire prison and all of the guards and inspectors to get through."

"We stay strong together and travel through the prison as a group," Enjolras immediately answered. "If we all stand together and fight as a group, we will be able to overcome any power that attempts to battle against us. We will work our way through the corridors and out through the back doors of the prison, so that we emerge outside at the galleys. Then, we will be free to scale the walls or escape through the sea. Either way, we will have a chance at freedom."

"And what will we do when we meet the guards, hm?" an older prisoner with a grey beard questioned. "When was face their whips and their guns? Hm?"

"They will not be able to defeat us," Enjolras said. "They may over power us in weapons, but we over power them in numbers. They may be able to defeat some of us, but it will be only a matter of time, before we over power them and take them down one by own." Enjolras sighed and shook his head. "I am not going to lie to you and tell you that there will be no risk in this." He nodded to the man who had spoken to him. "Yes, you are right, they have guns and weapons. They may open fire into our masses. Some of us may be captured. Some of us may be shot. Some of us may be killed. But that is a risk that I, myself, and willing to take." He moved his gaze so that his eyes locked with every other man's, one by one. "But are you?" he asked, his voice quiet, but strong, bold and challenging. "What are you willing to give for a chance of tasting freedom once more?"

His question was followed by a deep, piercing silence. A silence that was so lifeless that it seemed that every living creature of earth had suddenly fallen dead, their lungs no longer breathing, and their hearts no longer beating. Then a man spoke.

It was the man called Bardon, one of the three of those who had fought with Enjolras. He spoke in a low voice that was bitter and cold like a winter wind. "I am not going to throw away my life so that some of you may get to taste the freedom that I will never get."

"Nor am I," his companion, who had spoken to Enjolras earlier agreed. Then, both of these men turned to look at their companion, Jarreau, the strong man with the broken nose, as if asking for his agreement. But he remained silent, just fixing his cold eyes upon Enjolras and staring at him, never once looking away.

"You might get away," Enjolras told them. "But that is the risk we will all have to take."

"Well, that is a risk that I am not willing to take," the prisoner snarled, and Bardon nodded in agreement with him.

"That is enough, you arrogant fools!" Ever one turned their heads to see that it was the old man, with the white beard who was speaking, and they all seemed to recoil with respect. "Do not think that we do not know that you a merely too arrogant and too selfish… and too _cowardly_ to listen to this young man," the old man said, nodding at Enjolras. "After all," the old man when on, "what have we to lose? Our lives?" Then he grumbled quietly, also to himself, "At least, for those of us who have refused to let go of the fantasy that we are still living."

"Aye," another prisoner agreed with the old man. "Or is there truly a man among us who still believes that death is not a better alternative to this hell that we are already living?"

And another prison put out, "Which of you men here can honestly claim that if he had a knife he would not use it to kill as many guards as he can, and then use it to take his own life?"

Not one man spoke.

After a long time of silence, Enjolras spoke. "Now, gentlemen, I have a question to ask all of you. Which of the brave men amongst you will stand with me as we try to take back the freedom that is rightfully ours?"

Silence. That deathly silence returned over the prison, and Enjolras looked in anticipation at all of the faces that stared up at him, not rejecting nor accepting him. Finally, there was a quiet stir from the corner of the cell. Enjolras turned his eyes and saw that the old man had gotten to his feet. The man approached him, moving slowly, but with a firm and strong step. The other men moved out of his way so that he could come to stand before Enjolras. Enjolras looked onto the face of this old man and their eyes met. The man spoke. "I will stand with you."

"As will I," the man whom Enjolras believed was not a murderer said, boldly getting up and standing before Enjolras.

"I, as well," a third man said.

"I, as well."

"Aye."

"Aye…"

Suddenly, the bold cries of courageous men filled the cell as all of the prisoners were standing up, joining in, ready to fight. To battle under Enjolras's leadership. At length, even the man Jarreau stood up, and his two allies reluctantly stood up to join him. Enjolras could feel excitement filling his heart, and the passionate fire that burned in his soul was visible through his eyes.

An exited smile spread across Enjolras's lips. He turned to look over his shoulder and his eyes fell upon Luc, who was watching anxiously from the corner where Enjolras had commanded him to remain. At once, the child looked up into Enjolras eyes. Enjolras smiled and nodded. At once, Luc's face lit up with happiness, and he ran out from his hiding place, across the stone floor, and came to stand at Enjolras's side. The boy could not resist briefly throwing his arms around Enjolras's leg to hug him. Enjolras smiled at the boy and playfully rubbed the top of the boy's head with his hand, making Luc let out a quiet giggle.

Enjolras raised his eyes to again look out at the men who were now standing before him. He was no longer set apart. Now, they were all standing together as one force. One union.

"Now!" one of the prisoners cried out, shouting over the exited cries and chanting of the others, and after a moment, the men fell silent. The prisoner went on, "Let us all put out minds together, and we will see if we can devise a plan too impossible for the army to defeat."

Enjolras gave a quick nod, his face suddenly becoming stern and serious. "We need to take all of the possibilities into consideration. So, no matter what happens, we will have a plan."

The men murmured in agreement. "Firstly, when shall we attempt this escape?" one of the men asked Enjolras.

"Tomorrow," Enjolras answered at once. This seemed to please the men, and many of them nodded enthusiastically in agreement. "There is no time to waist, and there is no point in waiting," Enjolras went on. "We will do it tomorrow when they come to feed us. That gives us tonight and tomorrow to prepare."

For the rest of that night, the prisoners sat together on the stone floor for the prison, speaking together in hushed voices, as they conspired and planned for the fight for freedom, the same way the Friends of the ABC planned for their rebellion so long ago. Enjolras sat among the men, talking and conspiring like all of the others, and Luc close sat beside him, so that Enjolras could constantly feel the warmth of the boy's body hitting into his own.

By the end of the night, the prisoners had decided that even once they had reached the galleys, they would stay together. They would board a ship and take it. Then they would set sail and flee to a far of country, leaving France behind them. This was the only way that they could leave behind the chains of their pasts.

When the sun began to rise, and the prison began to awake, Enjolras got to his feet. "We must depart. We cannot let the guards know that we are together," Enjolras said to the men. "Until tonight, we will all have to pretend that none of this ever happened." The men nodded in agreement. They began to get up and go to separate corners of the jail, retreating their souls deep within their bodies, bowing their heads, and taking on the look of a man that was already dead.

Enjolras turned to Luc, who was standing beside him, looking up at him. Enjolras smiled. "Come on. Let's return to out hiding place." With a small smile, Luc nodded, and they began to leave. Then Enjolras felt a strong hand clasp his shoulder. He turned around. The man standing before him had a large strong body, a stone hard face, and a broken nose. It was Jarreau.

Enjolras looked into the man's face, and his own face became dark and grave. But he was not afraid. Never looking away from Jarreau's eyes, Enjolras used his hand to slowly push Luc behind him, so that he stood between this prisoner and this child. "Jarreau," Enjolras spoke in a low voice. His voice was not threatening or even unpleasant, but there was also sharp edge of warning in it, like the blade of a knife he held and would use if he had to.

Jarreau did not reply. He just stared at Enjolras with dark, thoughtful eyes that slowly wandered up and down Enjolras's body. At last, the prisoner opened his mouth and spoke. "What is your name?"

"Enjolras," he answered, his voice unchanged.

"Enjolras," Jarreau echoed in a vague, thoughtful voice, almost as if he were thinking aloud. Then, he fell silent for another long moment, before he opened his lips and spoke again. "You seem to be a brave man, Enjolras," he said quietly.

Enjolras was not expecting this, but still no emotion crossed his face. He said nothing.

"Brave but stupid." Jarreau looked into Enjolras's eyes a moment longer before he dropped his gaze so that it fell upon Luc, who was peeking out from behind Enjolras. Enjolras shifted his body so that the child was hidden from Jarreau's view. The prisoner then raised his to meet Enjolras's, which cut into him with a gaze like a knife.

"You risked your life to save this child," Jarreau said told Enjolras. "Who, at the time, you did not even know. It could have cost you your life."

Enjolras glared at Jarreau. "What do you want?" he murmured in a low voice.

"I want to know why," the prisoner answered, at once. "Why were you willing to give your life for this, this powerless child?"

Enjolras raised his head, standing a little straighter. The he said in a voice so low that it could barely be heard, "There are some things that are more important than our lives."

With that, Enjolras took Luc by the arm, and lead him away towards their hiding place in the corner of the jail, but he continued to stare over his shoulder, not looking away from Jarreau's eyes.


	25. Chapter XXV

Chapter XXV

Luc was hugging Enjolras tighter than he ever had before. The child was afraid. Enjolras did not let anyone see it, above all Luc, but he was afraid, also. He knew that what they were about to do was risking everything that he had, including his life. But he promised himself that he would not let anything happen to Luc. He would stand in front of the child to take a bullet in his place. Anything that was in his power, he would do to protect this little boy. But would it be enough?

"Enjolras?" Luc whispered.

Enjolras looked down at the child and forced a smile to appear on his lips. "Yes?"

"I have to tell you something…"

"What is that?" Enjolras asked, speaking in a soft, gentle voice.

"I—" Luc suddenly looked away and shook his head. "Nothing."

Enjolras let out a quiet laugh. "Alright. Are you sure?"

Luc looked up at him and nodded, but the look on his face did not look sure. Enjolras could see that this child wanted to tell him something, but was not yet willing to say it. Enjolras did not pressure him. "Alright, then. But if you ever want to tell me something, you know that you can."

"I know that," Luc said quietly, and he left his head drop to rest against Enjolras's shoulder, and Enjolras held the child tightly against him. Then for a long moment, they both said nothing. Luc's eyes dropped his gaze fell upon the dark stain of blood that covered Enjolras's left leg, from his thigh to below his knee, and the gash in the fabric of his pants where the blade had stabbed him.

"You are still bleeding," Luc said quietly. He glanced up at Enjolras, who had turned his eyes to look down at his wound.

"Hm…" Enjolras muttered, as if he had forgotten all about his wound until this moment, when in reality, the pain throbbing through his leg had him constantly wondering if he would be able to make it out of the prison, while still protecting Luc. For nearly two days, Enjolras could barely put any weight on his leg, but on the third day, he found that he was able to walk, so long as he was careful. But today, on the fourth day, he would have to be able to do anything that was necessary to protecting Luc and what ever that included: walking, running, climbing, swimming… Enjolras was not sure if he would be able to do it or not. But he would have to do it, either way.

"I can still walk on it, and that is all that matters," Enjolras said indifferently.

"What are you talking about?!" Luc cried out, pulling away from Enjolras so that he was sitting at an angle that allowed him to look straight into the man's eyes. "What matters is that you will be alright…" The child's voice suddenly became soft and afraid, and he hesitantly asked, "You will be aright, won't you?"

"Yes, I will," Enjolras assured him. "And so will you." He leaned in closer to the child, and, with a sincere smile on his lips, he whispered, "Luc, tonight, we will be free."

"We may be," Luc corrected him.

Enjolras nodded. "Yes. We may be…"

Luc smiled and returned to his former position, his head resting against Enjolras's body. Enjolras put his arm around the child's shoulders, and held him close to him.

"As soon as we get free," Luc said quietly, "you need to go to a doctor."

"I will," Enjolras agreed. "And you need to clean your face," he said teasingly.

Luc laughed. "And you need to shave your face."

Enjolras chuckled softly. "Very well, monsieur, we have a deal."

Luc laughed again, smiling the way a child should always smile. Seeing him happy made Enjolras's heart flood with joy. But with this joy, came a terrible pang of cold fear. Enjolras was afraid of what was going to happen. Because he knew that there was a chance that none of these things would ever come to pass. That they would not be free tonight. That they would both be back in this prison. That they would both be dead. Or worst yet, one of them would be in this cell and the other would not. At this thought, Enjolras wrapped both of his arms around the child and held him closely, and he began to pray.

For the rest of the day, neither of them spoke. They remained in this same position, holding each other tightly, both of them afraid to let go. Enjolras could feel his heart begin to beat faster as the hour grew nearer. All too soon, the time was at hand. "It's time," Enjolras whispered. But for a moment, Luc only hugged him tighter, and Enjolras hugged him back. But only for a moment. Then, Enjolras broke away from the child and got to his feet.

Enjolras went slowly across the cell, at first walking very carefully, putting very little weight on his wounded leg, then, starting to test his luck and put more and more pressure on it. At first, Enjolras thought that he would do well, that he would be able to do what he must, but then he risked putting the full weight of a step on his leg, and he almost fell over. Enjolras through out his hands and seized the prison wall to keep himself from falling. Leaning against the wall to support him, he quickly raised his eyes and looked around the prison, to see who had seen. None of the other prisoners seemed to be watching him, and he felt a deep wave of relief pass through him. He did not know if these men would be so willing to follow him if they knew the truth. It was true that his voice was strong. His will was strong. His courage was strong and his passion was strong. But his physical body was weak and broken. And dying. Then, just when he thought he was safe, Enjolras saw a man in the corner of the cell watching him.

It was the old man. His lined eyes fixed on Enjolras, watching him with a steady gaze. There was no sense in trying to hide, so Enjolras looked back into the man's eyes. For a moment, the man just looked at him, his face unchanged. Then, he beckon for Enjolras to come over with a slight wave of his hand, which was old and lined, but still held the look of strength from his youth. Enjolras steadied himself, still clutching the wall for support. After a moment, he slowly released the wall and carefully started across the cell to approach the old man.

Enjolras came to the man. He did not react, but reamed seated where he was, leaning against the stone wall. For several seconds, in fact, the man continued to stare absentmindedly across the cell, staring at the stone wall, behaving as if he had completely forgotten Enjolras's presence. This made Enjolras begin to feel uncomfortable and out of place.

Enjolras cleared his throat. "Monsieur…?"

At last, the old man turned his eyes to meet Enjolras's gaze. He just looked at him for a long moment, seemed to be studying him, trying to figure something out. He opened his mouth and his old voice came forth, thin and dry, yet somehow still strong, like the wind, which is usually calm and peaceful, but has the capability of being strong and violent when angered. "How old are you, boy?" the man asked Enjolras. Enjolras was indeed a boy compared to this ancient soul.

"Twenty-two," Enjolras answered indifferently. The old man nodded and looked away, as if he expected this answer. "Why do you ask?" Enjolras questioned him, but the man did not reply. Instead, he turned back to Enjolras and asked his own question.

"What have you done, boy?"

Enjolras frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," the man repeated, "what have you done? What have you done earn yourself such torture as they have put you through?" When Enjolras did not answer, the old man went on, "I've seen many things, boy. I've seen many of prisoners be tortured in the past, but never like you. And you are young. You are only a boy." The old man raised his bush white brows. "So, tell me, son, what have you done to be condemned to a sentence worse than death?"

Enjolras did not answer for a moment. He was thinking. Then, he decided to tell the truth, "I led an uprising against the crown."

The man did not look surprised. In fact, it almost seemed that he already knew this much. "Yes," he agreed. "But that is not why they are torturing you. If that was all you have done, then they would have executed you. But here you are, alive still. So I ask again, what have you done?"

Enjolras looked at the old man for a moment longer. Then he shook his head and sighed. "The only reason that I am alive is because the police think that they can use me for something else."

"They want you to turn in all of your family, you friends, and their families, betray everyone that you knew and loved, they think that you will somehow be able to help them accomplish something that you will not help them accomplish. You refuse to speak to them. So, first, they beat you; then, they threaten to kill you, but they do not. So, they leave you here to rot and suffer until you finally die," the old man said so calmly, so boldly, so certainly, so simply that for several long moments Enjolras stared at him in disbelief. He looked with great intensity and awe into this old man's eyes, trying to figure out how he knew all of this. But the man's face revealed nothing, save for a vague look of understanding. Knowing.

"Yes…" Enjolras finally said, and his voice came out as a thin whisper.

The old man nodded. "You are a very strong man, I see," he went on. "Brave, passionate, clever, young, handsome, and you have the power to move the people with your words… All of the qualities that is required of a leader if the people are to follow him." The man leaned in a little closer to Enjolras and lowered his voice. "But that is not why I decided that I could follow you. Do you know what made me make my decision?"

"What?"

"The way that you have been taking care of that little boy," he answered. Seeing the look on Enjolras's face, he proceeded to explain. "Oh, yes. I have seen you. It has not escaped my notice the way you saved him that day those three brutes, Jarreau, Bardon, and Goy, where beating him, the way you have protected him ever since, the way you give him your food, how you guard him when he sleeps, comfort him when he is afraid." He nodded knowingly. "I can see that you love this child, and I can see that you put him above yourself. I can see that you are leading us for his sake and not your own. And that is why I chose to follow you. A true leader thinks not of himself, but of the people he loves." Then, as if speaking to himself, he murmured, "Love is very difficult to come by in this godforsaken place."

Enjolras stared at the man, for a moment, unable to form words on his lips. As he gazed at this old man, a deep respect for him found its way into his heart, and he stood speechless, gazing at this man with great wonder, awe, and admiration, the way one would behold one of the mighty kings of old.

"But—" Enjolras finally managed to say. "But how do you know all of this?"

The old man raised his eyes to meet Enjolras, and for the first time, Enjolras saw a dim, but warm, light in this man's cold eyes, and what might have been the ghost of a smile appeared on the lips beneath the long white beard. "There was once a time, many years ago, when I loved people, as well, lad."

"Yes." Enjolras nodded. He understood that, but there was more that he did not understand. "But what I mean to say… how did you know all of that about… about why they keep me alive? Did someone tell you?"

The old man shook his head. "No. No one has told me anything of you. I do not even know your name. But I know a strong leader when I see one."

"Then, how do you know all of this, which you have spoken?" Enjolras questioned. "Everything that you have said is true, but… But how did you know this? I have told no one."

The old man did not reply. Little to nothing could be seen in those old, mystifying eyes, from which the light of life had faded and a deathly grey emptiness, like that of the forlorn sky after the rain, drained of sunlight and of hope, had remained, but Enjolras could see that the man was thinking. Finally, the man turned these old grey eyes, faded and dying, to look into Enjolras's young blue eyes, which burned with the strength and passion of his will. "If you will," he said quietly, "I ask you to sit with me for a few minutes, child, and I will tell you."

Enjolras first felt the urge to refuse for the sake of the rebellion, which he was about to lead. He glanced over at the gate of the cell and tried to decide how long it would be before the guards came to feed them and it all begun. There was no way to know for certain, but instinct told Enjolras that he had close to another hour. He only left Luc this early so that he would be prepared despite how wrong his judgment proved to be. Enjolras considered things for a moment, and then decided that he had could chance the risk. He turned back to the old man, and obeyed, sitting down across from him so that they could speak face to face.

The man looked into Enjolras's young, handsome face. The young man's body was wounded and broken, but he was still beautiful. But was even more beautiful, this old man saw, was his spirit, which had not yet been destroyed by the darkness of this prison. Despite the physical pain and torture that what was called justice had inflicted upon him, he refused to give in. He kept fighting with will, passion, courage, and strength, and power. The power that fueled Enjolras's soul was love. Another thing that this old man saw in Enjolras and admired was that the suffering, the torture, the cruelty that Enjolras had seen had not yet managed to drain the love out of him, to make him incapable of feeling, to turn him into an animal. And the old man admired him for that.

"My name is Agee," the old man said softly to Enjolras.

"Enjolras."

The old man, Agee, nodded. "To tell you the truth, Enjolras," he said in a low voice, "I knew these things, or, at least, I guessed these things, not long after I fist saw you brought in."

Enjolras frowned in confusion. "How is that?"

"Because…" Agee's voice trailed off, and his eyes dropped away, as if he were having difficulty speaking these next words. He turned his eyes back to meet Enjolras's, and in a low gruff voice, he said, "Because I was once a revolutionary, as well."

At once, Enjolras's entire face changed, turning from slightly skeptical and confused to utterly awed and astonished. The effect these words brought upon Enjolras was like that of which would come upon a man if he were talking to a person of whom he thought to be a slave and suddenly realized to be his own king. "You— You were?!" Enjolras cried out in awe.

Agee gave a small nod. "Yes… Many years ago…"

Enjolras stared at the man with new respect and wonder. He suddenly wanted to know every detail of this old man's experience of the revolution. "What battles were you in?" Enjolras asked anxiously.

"None that you would have heard of," Agee answered. "It was only my fellow friends and I that staged the uprising. There were some other citizens that were willing to join us, but it made little difference. We were out numbered, and we did not stand a chance…" Glazing across the cell, as if he could look into the past and seen visions of his youth, he thought for a moment, and then added, muttering to himself, "Though, deep in our hearts, we knew that before we even begun. Yet, for some reason… that did not stop us…"

As Enjolras listen to this old man speak, it seemed almost as if this man had somehow gotten into his own body and reported the feelings within the depths of his heart. Everything that this man said was a reflection of the things Enjolras would have spoken of the rebellion of the ABC. Deep in his their hearts, they knew that they had no chance of winning. That they would all die. But, for some reason, that did not seem to matter…

"That sounds just like us…" Enjolras found himself whispering.

Agee turned his eyes to look at him. He did not seem surprised at all. It seemed, in fact, that he had been expecting this much. "I was young then," he told Enjolras. "Twenty-five. About your age. We were all young." Then, gazing out at the prison he muttered, "It is sad to see how backward this world has become. The old, worn and ruined by life, ready to move on, linger in this world, as the young, fresh and fruitful in spirit, with their entire lives before them, perish and die."

"What happened?" Enjolras asked the man quietly. "In your rebellion?" Needless to say, Agee and his young ban of revolutionaries failed. Needless to say that most of them died. But what Enjolras was asking was, how did Agee survive?

"I imagine, that my story was the same as yours, lad," Agee said quietly. "Our uprising was a slaughter. Nearly all of us were killed. There were six who survived, I being one of them. By some cruel fait we were the left when the rest of our friends were dead, and they took us. They believed that some members of the conspiracy had escaped and they thought that we knew where they were. We did not, but even if we did, we would not have told them. They questioned us, starved us, beat us…"

His voice faded and he fell silent. He stared at the wall, but it was clear that he did not see the stone of the prison, but the visions of this grim past that unfolded before his eyes. After several long moments, never looking away from the stone, he opened his mouth and spoke again in a low voice that crackled like the blackened remains of the logs breaking as the fire burns out, and nothing is left but dim, fading embers.

"After a year, they finally executed my five friends. But they left me alive because I was the one that started the uprising. They thought I knew. And even when they realized that I did not, they would not kill me. So, here I am still. After all of these years…"

Enjolras hesitated for a moment, but he could not help but ask, "How old are you?"

"I do not know," Agee answered. "None of us do. Why are we to calculate years, or months, or days, or hours, or day and night, where it makes no difference to us, who are no longer living?" He sighed, and said, "But I do know that I am _very _old. I've been here for ages, son. I've seen young men come in here, watched their hair turn grey, and watched them die. I've seen young boys, such as yourself, come in here and watched them die years before their time. Watched them be beaten to the point of death by other prisoners. I have seem them catch sickness from this horrid cell, become ill and perish. I have seen them die of starvation. I have seen them be taken away, one at a time, and led out for their executions… For years on end I have been forced to sit here and watch the generations pass away, one by one. But by some cruel trick of Providence, I am still here."

As Enjolras gazed at this old man, and he wondered if he was looking at an image of his own fait. Was this is destiny? Was this the future that he was doomed to suffer? Doomed to spend the rest of his life rotting in this cell, with nothing to live for. His soul already dead as his body waited to die. But death, sly and cruel in nature, never taking him.

"Monsieur Agee…" Enjolras said quietly. The old man raised his eye to meet Enjolras's. "I am very sorry for what has happened to you," he said sincerely.

Agee waved a hand at Enjolras. "You need not pity me, lad" he said. "I am old, now, and I feel that my life is finally coming to an end. I will soon be gone, and it will all be over." When the old man spoke these words, a small smile appeared on his lips, as he looked forward to death. There was a time when Enjolras would have seen this old man, who wanted to die, and thought him to be mad. But now, Enjolras understood him completely. Dying was not such a terrible thing. In many of times, it was a fait far kinder than living.

"It is you that I pity," Agee said after a moment, the smile gone from his lips and replaced by a cold, hard expression. "You are still young, and you still have a life ahead of you… For better or for worse."

Enjolras nodded. He understood. He knew that his one chance to save his life and his fait was coming, approaching by every second. If he should fail, his fait would be that of this old man's… or worse. Worse. The worst thing that could happen to him, Enjolras thought, was being separated from Luc. In life or in death, if they were separated then they would both be broken.

"Thank you, for telling me everything that you have," Enjolras said to the man. "I am very glad and very grateful."

Without a word, Agee nodded.

"I will forever honor you all for your courage, your friends for their sacrifice, and you for yours," Enjolras told him.

"Nay!" Agee cried at once. "It is I who honor you, boy. You have paid a heavy burden and a high price for your strength… Higher than I have ever had to suffer." Then, for the last time, Enjolras saw this old man smile. "But in truth, boy, you do remind me much of myself when I was young."

Enjolras found himself returning the smile. Then, he glanced over his shoulder at the gate. "It is almost time," he said quietly. Turing back to Agee, he asked, "You are coming with us?"

Agee only nodded in reply. Enjolras gave a quick nod in return and got to his feet, careful to lift himself up with only his hands and his right leg, so that his left foot always hovered a few inches off the ground. When he was standing, he gently placed his foot on the stone, and turned to leave.

"Enjolras," Agee said quietly.

Enjolras looked back at the man. "Yes?"

"Be careful when you are wounded," Agee said. In his voice was the wisdom of a sage that warns the young man to beware for his fait. "So you can be fierce when you are strong."

Enjolras knew that what the man said was true. If a man strikes when he is injured, he is all the more likely to fall. But Enjolras could not wait until he was healed. He let out a heavy sigh and looked into the man's eyes.

"I am not strong now, but if we do not strike now, we will not strike at all. This is our only chance. So, we have no choice but to take it. No matter whatever consequences lie before us."


	26. Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVI

Everyone was in their positions. Nobody made contact with the gaze of the other man's eyes. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. The time was near…

If one of the guards looked into the cell and beheld this scene, he would have thought nothing of it. The prisoners seemed to be dark, bitter, and angry, as they were everyday.

Many of them sat alone like stone gargoyles, just as cold, just as hard, just as lifeless, in the corners, against the walls, in the parts of the cell that were clocked by shadow. Most of there men had their eyes closed, either sleep or too miserable to even raise their eyelids, but some of them peered out at the prison around them, watching with cold dark eyes, as the guards passed by their cell, as the other prisoners stirred, as a beetled scampered across the stone floor and slipped out under the gate of the cell. Then the man would look with envy at the beetle as it vanished from view, and gaze after it for several minutes, as if jealous at the fact that a beetle was free to go as he pleased, but he, a human being, was forced to stay locked up in this prison, bound by chains, for the rest of his days.

There were also those ominous groups of the prisoners, which, amongst the guards and prison officials, where known as the "very ghastliest of the whole wretched lot of them." These groups of men had gathered in their usual places, sometimes speaking to one another in low, terrible voices of conspiracy, but mostly they just sat there, glaring at the word around them with murderous hatred and anger in their vengeful eyes.

Aside from them, there were other scattered prisoners that were already the dead, incapable of feeling or of living. These prisoners sat or stood in random places, looking around with completely blank expressions on their lifeless faces, their eyes drained and dead, their souls, so it seemed, already departed. These prisoners looked at the word, as if they could not see, hear, nor under any of the things that happened around them. These men were dead already.

All of this was the same as it was everyday. Nothing was different. Nothing had changed. The prisoners were the same. Their hearts were still terrible, and their souls were still dead. If a guard looked into this cell, he would not have been able to sense the change.

But for the prisoners in side of this cell, today was different from all other days. Even within the hallow bodies of these emptied people, they could feel something stirring within their cold hearts. Something that they had not known in years. Hope.

Enjolras was in his place, leaning against the stone wall where he stood only a short distance away from the gate of the prison. He could feel his heart racing with excitement, and he had to make careful concentration to keep his breathing under control. But nothing that he was feeling was visible on his face. His eyes wandered glumly from place to place, watching the other prisoners, staring at the wall, watching small insects float through the air amongst the partials of dust that ventilated through the air and, then, turning his eyes to peer through the gate to watch with a bitter expression on his face as the guards passed by the cell. He was performing the same act that he put on when he was waiting for the guards to throw bread into the cell so that he could dive on it and stanch it up before the other men got to it. But now, he was not preparing to get to the bread and fight against his fellow prisoners, but to get to the open gate and then fight against the forces of justice.

Enjolras was staring blankly at a crack in the stone floor when he heard a pair of feet approaching the cell. It could have been another guard merely passing by, but instinct told him that this was it. The time was here. It was all about to being. What was now the dark, cold pits of hell were about to burst open and transform into perdition's flaming chambers, alive with terrible, lethal fire.

_God, if You are we with me, help me. Help us get out safely. Help us escape. Protect us. And especially, protect Luc. Do not let him get hurt… _

Enjolras waited. A moment later, he slowly raised his eyes to look at the gate of the prison. There was a young man in the black uniform of the guards was approaching the cell. He was carrying a few loaves of bread in one arm and the keys in the other. He was alone.

Enjolras recognized the young man. For a moment, he was not quite sure when he had seen him in the prison. Then, with an impact like a fist to the gut, it his him. Enjolras had been swimming in a world of strange sounds and shadows when this man had appeared, and, at the time, he had barely been aware of what was going on. But now he remembered. It was that day when Enjolras had first seen Luc. After he had saved the child and Jarreau, Bardon, and Goy had beaten Enjolras to the point of unconsciousness. Then, as he lied weak, bleeding, and dying on the stone floor, Enjolras vaguely remembered hearing the prisoners speaking to a guard. Enjolras weakly opened his eyes and he saw a blurry image of the face of a young man peering in at him through the bars of the cell. He remembered hearing Jarreau tell the guard to have Enjolras punished for starting a fight, but the guard had replied by objecting. "I think he had already been punished enough." Just after he had heard these words, Enjolras passed out again and did not wake until over an hour later. He never even thought of the guard again. Not until now.

Enjolras continued to watch the young guard, a passive expression on his face, as the young man approached the gate, fumbled with the key ring for a moment, and then jabbed one of the keys into the lock. Enjolras felt like his heart had rising from his chest and worked its way into his throat. The fire of fear burned in his stomach, but the fire of excitement and hope burned in his mind, his heart, his soul. He did not move. None of the prisoners moved. They had to wait…

The young guard turned the key to unlock the cell. Then placed a hand upon the gate to push it open. With a dull creak, like the moan of a dying man, the door slid on the rusting hedges and it opened. The young guard raised his eyes and was about to throw the bread into the cell, but when he looked up, his face turned to utter horror and he quickly tried to back away. The only thing he saw was the mass of prisoners charging at him like a stampede of cattle, closing in on him like a pack of wolves, caving in on his like a tidal wave.

The guard opened his mouth to let out a cry for help. But scarily any sound was able to escape his lips before he felt a pair of strong hands seized him by his throat, abruptly cutting off his voice and his ability to breath. Looked in horror at the face that glared back into his. He recognized the prisoner as the strong, brutal man, the ring leader of a gang of three, the man who often beat the other prisoners with his bare hands. It was Jarreau.

The young man struggled to get away, trying to cry out for help. But he could not get away because Jarreau was too strong, and he could not cry out because he could not breathe. Just when they boy's vision began to blur and he was sure that he would suffocate to death, Jarreau released him and flung him to the ground. He hit the stone, gasping for air and clutching at his throat. At once, all of the prisoners were upon him. Jarreau, Bardon, and Goy got to him first. Goy delivered the first blow, striking the guard in his face. The young man's neck whipped back and his head slammed into the stone floor. Goy hit him again. Bardon hit him. Jarreau hit him. Together, these three men hit him again and again, the way they did to Enjolras, the way they did to Luc. In less than a minute, the young guard was unconscious, but the prisoners continued to hit him.

The other prisoners stood all around these three, some of them chanting them on, some of them joining in, but most of them just standing there silently and watching. The three prisoners continued to hit this man. Bruises began to swell all over his face. Blood burst out of his nose, and began to run out of his mouth. They kept hitting him. They were going to kill him…

When Enjolras saw this, the helpless man, young, innocent, unconscious held down to the stone floor as these three prisoners mercilessly beat him, all he could think of was the way these same men did this same thing to Luc. "That is enough!" Enjolras cried, shouting to be heard over the triumphant cheers of the prisoners. He pushed through the mass of prisoners, trying to get to Jarreau and the others. But no one seemed to hear him.

Enjolras burst out at the front of the group. In one movement, he went to these three men and stepped out in front of them, standing between them and the unconscious prisoner. At once, in a rush of anger, Jarreau looked up to see who this was. When he saw Enjolras, his face darkened, and he rose to his full height, staring into Enjolras's eyes. Both of these men could feel the tension of two opposing forces slamming into each other in the war of beliefs that raged between them.

Enjolras looked directly into Jarreau's eyes. "That is enough," Enjolras repeated. His voice was softer now, but firm, strong, commanding. "We will not throw away any lives unnecessarily," Enjolras declared. "Ours or theirs."

Jarreau looked hard at Enjolras for a moment longer, not saying anything. It was hard for Enjolras to read anything on his face. Then, to Enjolras's utter surprise, the man gave a small nod and took a small step back.

This action seemed to shock Bardon and Goy even more than it surprised Enjolras, and once, they both rushed forward, moving past Jarreau, to scream in Enjolras's face. "What makes you think that you can order us about like dogs?!" Goy snarled at Enjolras. "What puts you above all of us?!"

"Besides," Bardon joined in, "what is it to you?! For what do you care about the fait of these swine?" He cast fiery eyes down at the unconscious guard, and would have kicked his limp body had Enjolras not been standing in the way. So, instead, Baron spat at the man's face.

Enjolras did not waver this entire time. He looked into Bardon's face, unmoved by his words and his threats, as if he had not heard them at all. "That is enough," he repeated a final time. Then he turned his back on the man to face the other prisoners.

Almost at once, Enjolras felt Goy seize him by his arm and yank him around. Enjolras was pulled off balance and stumbled, his left foot hit hard against stone ground and was burdened with almost his full body weight. Enjolras felt the pain cut through his leg, and a, that same moment, it gave out under the pressure. He fell.

Enjolras caught himself with his hands before he hit the ground, but his leg had already slammed into the stone floor. Overwhelming pain shot through him like a bullet. Starting in his leg, and then cutting up through his body, this his side, through his heart, up into his throat, choking him so that he could not breathe. His head began to pulse and his vision blurred. He could not hide the look of terrible pain that shown plainly on his face, as he clamped his eyes shut, wincing and gritting his teeth as he fought against the pain, as heavy breaths emitted out from his clinched jaws as he struggled to breathe.

Enjolras felt two strong hands seized him and violently yank him up off the floor. A moment later, he was thrown up against the wall and he saw Goy's gnarled faces sneering at him with mockery and scorn from less than a foot away. "So, you see?!" Goy scoffed. "You are not so much stronger than the rest of us. You are weak. And stupid! And I will not have you treat us as if we fall below you!"

"Goy!" a loud, furious voice cried out. Before Enjolras even turned his eyes to see who was speaking, he knew it was Agee. "That is _quite_ enough, you fools!" the old man thundered. "You are the stupid one! How can you insult him now! Look at us! We have gotten out of our cell already. Under your lead, no one had ever gotten so far. You are stupid because you are selfish. Your pride blinds you. And you are also cowardly! Now, let him go. Time is short, and you are wasting it!"

At the accusation of being "cowardly," Goy's twisted face immediately snapped around to look at Agee, fury blazing in his eyes. Goy momentarily distracted, Enjolras was able to pull away from him and stepped away from the wall, so that he was no longer cornered. He raised his eyes and quickly looked at the faces around him. All the prisoners were watching. They had all seem how weak he was. If they were still to follow him, Enjolras would have somehow to prove, if it were still possible, that he was strong. Try not to show how humiliated he felt, Enjolras straightened up, composed himself, and tried to appear that he was still in control of the situation. Goy opened his mouth to speak to Agee, but before he could, Enjolras spoke, "Yes. Now is out chance. We must get moving!"

The mass of prisoners expressed their agreement, and Enjolras felt a wave of relief pass over him. They were still following him. So long as he did not blunder again, they might continue to follow him through the end.

But just as Enjolras thought this, Goy cried out in protest. "I will not take orders for _you!_" he hissed, stepping suddenly at Enjolras and snagging his arm. Enjolras stumbled again, but this time he did not fall.

"Goy!"

A third man suddenly stepped between Got and Enjolras, forcing Goy to release his hold on his arm. This man had his face turned to Goy and his back turned to Enjolras, so he could not see his face, and for a moment Enjolras did not know who this man was. Then, surprise and confusion hit him in his chest when he recognized the low voice emitting from this man's mouth.

"That is enough," Jarreau said. He spoke in a cold, almost threatening, voice.

Goy glared up at Jarreau with a look on his face that reflected the utter confusion that Enjolras also felt. He narrowed his eyes and shook his head slightly, as if to ask Jarreau what motive he could possibly have by doing this. When Jarreau did not reply, Goy's face took on the dark, terrible look of one who has been betrayed and is staring into the face of the traitor.

Jarreau's face became even harder and colder. "That is enough," he said one final time. Glaring at him with utter disgust as one would look at grim of the street, Goy turned his back to him and disappeared into the tide of men. Enjolras watched Goy leave. As did Jarreau. Just a moment after he was gone, Jarreau turned to Enjolras.

Enjolras looked up into this man's face and into his eyes, trying to see the human within them. But it was like looking into the night sky and searching for stars when they are all hidden by thick dark clouds, there was nothing to be seen. And like this dark void, Enjolras did not understand what really lied behind the veil of blackness. At one moment, he hated Jarreau with lethal fire that was prepared to murder if it came to it. But then, the next moment, he almost got the impression that Jarreau was on his side, and he perceived that he was looking at a completely different man. Enjolras stared into the stone hard face of Jarreau and tried to see him clearly. At last, he came to the conclusion that Jarreau was like many others in this prison, even like himself before Luc came into his life.

His soul was dark and cold, hardened and withered, fading and dying. Nearly dead. This dark, cold, hard, and hateful soul knew not the light, for it had forgotten it, and this soul was what compelled the man to act in hatred and in anger, in violence and in cruelty. But somewhere hidden deep within the depths of this darkness, was a faint, barely existing glow, the fading shadow of a warm light that had once shown clear and brilliant, still lingered. Very rarely, when something around him touched this dying soul, that faint light sprang forward, like a the sun rising on the horizon to lighten the world, and shown through just long enough so that the body could act. Then, when the moment was over, the sun would set again, and this light retreated back into the dark caverns from whence it hid.

Perhaps, this was what happened when Jarreau bowed his head to Enjolras and obeyed his orders, respected his commands. Perhaps, this was what happened when Jarreau stepped between Enjolras and Goy, his comrade, so to protect his Enjolras, his enemy. Perhaps, it was the hope of tasting freedom once more was the gentle finger that touched this man's cold soul and caused the flame to come forth.

Enjolras knew that, for a time, his own soul was on this grim decent into the darkest darkness, that of which lies not under the sea, or in a black cave, or in the blackest hour of the darkest night, but that of which is in the darkest center of a corrupted human soul. He knew that if Luc had not entered his life, he would have been the same way as Jarreau, as all the other prisoners. Without hope, without caring, and without love. Each day, Enjolras could feel his soul withering, his heart hardening, and his body turning cold. In that time when he hated the world and ever thing in it, more and more every day, ever hour, every second, it was Luc that had touched his soul and had saved him. Luc was the light that pulled him out of the darkness.

Enjolras looked onto Jarreau's face, his own face strong but not angry. "Thank you, Jarreau," Enjolras said in a low voice that seemed truly grateful, but did not in anyway suggest weakness.

Jarreau did not reply. For a moment, he just looked back at Enjolras, his stone face unchanging. He took a small step forward so that he was closer to Enjolras. Then, he spoke in a low voice. Only Enjolras could hear him. "You already know what we are willing to do for freedom," he said.

Without showing it on his face, Enjolras thought about this for a few seconds. Yes. He did know what they were willing to sacrifice. Everything—the only thing—that they still had. Their lives. They were willing to do everything in their power. They would not consider the consequences of their actions. They were willing to give it all.

"But I have to ask you," Jarreau went on. "What are _you_ willing to give?"

Enjolras looked at him for a moment, his face unchanged. This question caught him off guard. He thought that he had already proven to them that he was willing to die for the cause, just as they all were. He did not understand why Jarreau was saying this. He had given him no reason to think otherwise. Unless…

"I am willing to give everything that the rest of us are," Enjolras said somewhat defiantly.

"No you are not," Jarreau cut him off short. "We"—Jarreau put a hand on his own chest and used his other hand to gesture to the men around him, clearly dividing Enjolras apart from the other men, singling him out, declaring that he was not one of them—"are willing to do _everything!_" He looked at Enjolras hard for a moment, cocking his head to the side as he studied him. "But what are you willing to do?"

Enjolras opened his lips. Now, he could sense the eyes of the other prisoners watching him. Now, they were listening. Every word he said, they would hear. And they would be judging him. Looking for strength, and looking for weakness. "I am willing to do everything that you are willing to do," Enjolras said. His voice remaining strong.

But Jarreau did not look convinced. "Are you really?" he questioned. "Because I am willing to do anything and everything. I am willing to kill. To murder. I am ready to strangle innocent boys with my bare hands. I am ready to sell my soul to the devil. I will do whatever I must to get free." His face darkened and his voice dropped even lower. "But what are you willing to do?"

"I am willing to do the same," Enjolras said at once. "Freedom is a beautiful, but the price for freedom his high. That is a price which I am willing to pay," he said boldly, in such a way that his claim sounded true. Even Jarreau almost believed it. Almost.

Jarreau stepped in closer to Enjolras and lowered his head as that he and Enjolras were staring at each other, eye to eye. Enjolras, looking into Jarreau's face, saw something that could only be understood between these two men. Jarreau said softly, "I will do anything that I must. I do not care who dies. Freedom is all I care about. I need nothing else. I love nothing else. Nothing. No one…"

As soon as Jarreau said this, Enjolras understood the words he said, and he understood what these words were really supposed to mean. Enjolras could feel his innards contracting with fear. Without even being aware of it, Enjolras turned his eyes away from the man in front of him and looked back towards the entrance of the cell, and they fell upon the little boy who was standing there, waiting for him, watching him was anxious eyes. Luc.

Enjolras understood. This was what Jarreau meant. This was why he approached Enjolras last night and asked him why he loved the child. It was true. Enjolras was not willing to give everything, like the rest of these men were. They had nothing to lose, so they would take every risk if they had to. But Enjolras… He had everything to lose. Enjolras was not willing to lose Luc. If he had to surrender, throw up his hands, and throw away any hope of escape in order to save Luc, he would do it without hesitating.

"What about you?" Jarreau questioned him. "What will you give to be free?"

Enjolras turned his eyes back to look upon this man. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell Jarreau that he was being absurd, that he was more than willing to do or give anything that would gain freedom, but when he opened his lips to say these things, no words were capable of leaving his lips. He closed his lips and swallowed down any reluctance. He could not say it. The lie was too terrible. So instead, when he opened his mouth and told the truth, but not the truth that Jarreau wanted to know.

"I have killed people before."

Enjolras had never told Luc this. He did not want Luc to know. He did not want anyone to know. He was too ashamed. He told Luc that he had led an uprising, that he fought in a war, that all of his friends were killed. But he knew that the child did not understand the truth of battle. He did not understand the true horror, the true treachery, the true darkness, on war. No one can understand these things until he have fought in a war, himself. War, itself, not the soldiers fighting in the battles, was the killer. In war, a man is fighting, with on hand, for what he believes in, and with the other hand, he is tearing apart his own philosophy. Imagine a man who was striving to hang a magnificent tapestry with one hand. Not until after he has hung it up and steps back to look at his work does he realize that, with other hand, he has ripped a large ugly tear in the fabric, leaving the tapestry to hang in shame.

Enjolras believed in freedom, and he had fought, without a moment's hesitation, to win this future. He had claimed innocent lives to do this. Shot young men. You boys, who perhaps had a family, or a mother or father, or a wife, or a child back at home, who was then praying to God that this man would come home safely and was now weeping and grieving that they would never see this man again. Even as he pulled the trigger on his musket, Enjolras did not think of what he was doing as this. He knew it was terrible, but was it not necessary? He did not think of the people at this man's home that would have to keep living without them. This thought did not strike him until after he had committed the act. Until he saw the faces of the soldiers and saw that they were young and afraid, that they were only boys no different from his own friends. Until all of his friends were dead and he was left behind to pay the punishment for his crimes. Until he felt the burn of the lash on his back. Until he tried to talk to God and he did not answer. Until he was left abandoned and alone in the darkness. Then, alone in the dark, he decided that he deserved everything that was happening to him. That God's judgment, no matter how cruel, was just. He hated Him for it.

Now that God had given him Luc, Enjolras knew that He had finally forgiven him. That he had suffered the punishment and it was done now. Enjolras rejoiced. Now, as he admitted to Jarreau that he had killed people, he thought about doing it again. He did not want to kill anyone. But if he had to in order to save Luc, would he? Yes, Enjolras knew he would. …But only if he had to.

"Is that so?" As Jarreau looked at him, Enjolras could see this man's eyes actually searching his own as they looked into them, as if searching for the truth. "And would you be willing to do this again?"

Enjolras's face did not change. "Yes."

Jarreau looked at Enjolras for a long moment, the intensity in his eyes penetrating Enjolras like a knife. Enjolras did not let any emotion, any feeling show on his face, but somehow, Jarreau still seemed to know all of this that he was trying to hide. Jarreau did not ask anymore questions. He said nothing more. He turned his back to Enjolras and stepped down to join the rest of the men. But he now knew the tragic flaw of the man who was leading him.

Enjolras felt a strange vulnerability that he had never felt before. For the first time, someone had broken through the shield that was Enjolras's defense. Enjolras, full of life and fire, and emotion and passion, had a face of stone that he had trained to be his mask. When he did not want to reveal his thoughts to the world, it could not see past this impenetrable wall that protected Enjolras's mind from the eyes of his enemies. But now, for the first time, this wall had been breached. Somehow, Jarreau had seen through him and, he had seen the truth hidden behind Enjolras's words. Now, he knew the truth. Now, he knew Enjolras's weakness.

Countless fears and worries hit Enjolras at once, but he forced them out of his mind and turned to the rest of the men, making sure that his face remained calm and unshaken and that he looked to remain in control of the situation. Even as he commanded himself not to, he found his eyes looking for Luc, anticipating to see a new emotion on the child's face now that he knew that Enjolras was a murder. Standing just beyond the other prisoners, found him.

Luc still had not taken his eyes off of Enjolras. There was nothing different in the way that he gazed at this man with admiration and with love. It was as if he never heard these words come out of Enjolras's mouth. Because of this, Enjolras concluded that the child did not hear him; he had spoken quietly, and Luc was too far away to understand what he was saying. Luc did not hear, and he did not know. Enjolras relaxed.

Enjolras's conclusion was more or less correct. Luc did, in fact, hear Enjolras utter the words, "I have killed people before." Enjolras had spoken quietly, but not soft enough that the child did not hear them. Yet, they had no affect on him. No effect on the way that he felt about Enjolras. As the old saying tells, love is blind. So, in manner of speaking, Enjolras was right. The child did not hear him.

Turning back to the men, Enjolras spoke in a loud, clear voice that rang out over them like the church bell that rang over the city on Sunday morning. "Citizens! We have gotten this far. We have broken through the first barrier that divides us and freedom. Let us go on now, and break through all others until we all are free!"

The men roared with triumph, throwing their firsts into the air and stamping their bare feet on the stone floor. Enjolras let this endure for a moment, they he waved a hand to silence them. "Now!" he cried out. "If there is a man amongst us who knows these halls better than I let him come forward and led us."

"I know the way!" a shout came from within the men and they all began to part as one of them could come forward. When he emerged at the front of the group, Enjolras recognized the man. It was the man who said, "I am no murderer." Enjolras did not know his name. "I know the way out," the man told Enjolras.

Enjolras looked at the man with a sort of respect, and he gave a strong nod. "Lead the way."

A small grin appeared at the corner of the man's lips as he nodded back to Enjolras. "This way, men!" he cried out and he started forward. With a joyful cheer, the men started forward. Enjolras slipped into the stream of men, which was now beginning to flow down the hall like a river. Enjolras made his way through them, moving as quickly as his wounded leg would allow. He came to the cell's gate, where Luc was still waiting for him. Upon reaching him, Enjolras smiled. "Come on. Let's go."

A wider smile spread across Luc's face as he hurried over to take his place beside Enjolras. Enjolras laid his hand on the child's shoulder and together they started forward, moving through the dark corridors of the prison and towards freedom.


End file.
